It always comes back to the personal, doesn't it?
Maybe we've just forgotten we're all in this together.
I've seen too much, and I've lost too many. And too much of me still wants to fix it.
I desperately want to write but you're going to have to put up with this mélange of nonsense instead.
Memories can be a choice, sometimes.
I've written myself through loneliness, depression, anxiety, anger, fear, frustration for my entire life.
Elena's really a lousy soldier. I love her with all my heart, but she should've been a freighter jock instead.