Good soldiers never pass up a chance to eat or sleep. They never know how much they'll be called on to do before the next chance.

Seems like half my anxiety dreams are about airports.

Mia Maz glanced aside in concern at his muffled snort. "Are you all right?" "Yes. Sorry," he whispered. "I'm just having an attack of limericks." Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip; only her deepening dimple betrayed her. "Shhh," she said, with feeling.

I wanted to give you a victory. But by their essential nature triumphs can’t be given.

When you can’t do something truly useful, you tend to vent the pent up energy in something useless but available, like snappy dressing.

If you want to catch something, running after it isn't always the best way.

I am not a fate worse than death, dammit!