the words poured out like soldiers storming normandy: they ran through the barbed wire, right at the guns. but some survived, the lucky ones dragged themselves through the surf and made it ashore. ten thousand we launched and if only three were to reach their destination then we would weep as pyhrrus, but be victorious nonetheless.

meanwhile back home partial sentences sat around the dinner table, waiting for the dreaded sound of a door slamming, the delivery of news that they would be forever torn apart and left incomplete.

how do you tell the difference between a moment of courage and a moment of weakness?

if it only hurts when i slow down, then perhaps i should try to keep moving? just run myself to exhausting day in and day out. perhaps i could make it as a cycle messenger.