What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?

Here we are on the road. We must be going somewhere.

Regret is pointless. I never do anything without first deciding to do it based on facts and feelings, and if it doesn't work out how I hoped, oh well, there's another notch on my experience belt.

Not so easy, Mr Lennon. Even if you try.

We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

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

How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?