There Are Much Worse Games To Play.

The Ones I Loved Fly As Birds In The Open Sky Above Me. Soaring, Weaving, Calling To Me To Join Them. I Want So Badly To Follow Them, But The Seawater Saturates My Wings, Making It Impossible To Lift Them. The Ones I Hated Have Taken To The Water, Horrible Scaled Things That Tear My Salty Flesh With Needle Teeth. Biting Again And Again. Dragging Me Beneath The Surface.

Destroying Things Is Much Easier Than Making Them.

The Damage, The Fatigue, The Imperfections. That's How They Recognize Me; Why I Belong To Them.

The Awful Thing Is That If I Can Forget They're People, It Will Be No Different At All

It’s Not Wondering What I Breathe In, But Who, That Threatens To Choke Me.