The Real Truth Is That The War

I'd Like To Think Life Has Improved Since 1850, Despite The Long Hours We All Seem To Spend Slaving Over Hot Computers, But The Psychological Journeys Remain The Same - The Search For Love, Identity, A Meaningful Place In The World.

The Facts Of His Existence Are Plain. I Know That He Will Never Silence Those Unspeakable Voices. He Heard How People Killed, And How They Died And Their Voices Infected Him, Coursed Through His Body, Poisoned Him. He Didn't Know How To Turn Off The Noise, Or Turn The Hate Back Out Onto The World Like The Rest Of Us. He Turned It On Himself. You Could See That From The Scars On Him.

I Didn't Seem To Have That Effect On Anyone But It Would Have Been A Waste For Both Of Us To Be Saints.

And After Awhile Of This My Brain And My Body And Every Single Inch Of Me That Was Alive Was Flooded With The Feeling That I Was Starving, Starving For Edmond. And What A Coincidence, That Was The Feeling I Loved Best In The World.

This Was What Happiness Felt Like - This Wondrous, Miraculous Alternative To Dread.