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Beware the fury of a patient man —John Dryden
It was hard not having a soul, most especially when you could remember having had one.
Loneliness didn’t tell you what you had lost, only that something was missing. It
He consoled himself with the thought that good enough was good enough, while perfect was always a pain in the ass and often not worth the effort anyway.
“Maybe the thing doesn’t make sense, but the people do,”
there’s two kinds of people in the world, the ones who need to be told and the ones who figure it out all by themselves,”
Warrior and healer, parallel wars, similarity of purpose, but so different in their actions. Diseases of the body, and diseases of humanity itself. Wasn’t that an interesting way to look at it?
“This way, sir.” The corporal gestured. Kelly followed without a word. Sir didn’t mean anything, Kelly knew. When in doubt, a Marine would call a lightpole “Sir.”
Life had to have a purpose, and one such purpose was the service of others.
Abuse was the weapon of the coward, after all, and those who applied it knew the fact as well as those who had to accept it.
