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Writing imposes order on my chaotic thoughts and feelings.
If he were still capable of feeling happiness, William would die content, but he had lost the habit of happiness. The numbness never seemed to abate, yet as they strolled along the familiar path, dotted with clumps of snowdrops, his heart was full – of what he wasn’t sure, but he remembered happiness used to feel something like this.
The war was like a plague, except it didn’t carry off the weak and elderly. Those it left behind. This plague took the young and the strong, those who would be missed most.
grief appears to be a reservoir that never empties. Memory refills it constantly.
Crescent illae crescetis amores.’
As these letters grow, so will our love.’
He craves silence which acts as balm to his troubled spirit.