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This is our war. Administer the pill before the cell divides (keep marching--keep fighting) and we'll both go down like toy soldiers. Threats and picket lines are forming around our beds and the landmines in our chests will go off in time. If we trip each other into this, do you think we'll find a way out?
We've synthesized a compound to treat their conscience. It's:
one part loss, one part no sleep, one part the gun shot we heard, one part the screams mistaken for laughter, one part everything after, one part love, one part stepping out of the driving rain, one part parting ways. In the cold apartment, don't look back, just keep running down the stairs. Do you hear the footsteps? Do you hear the voices in the traffic communiques in the attic? They say, after time, all this will heal, we will rebuild and these broken arms will mend themselves in our embrace.

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