I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

Of course, if I eat all of him, if I spare his brain, he'll rise up and follow me back to the airport, and that might make feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what 'friends' are any more, but that might be close.

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes.

She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature

When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.