It's time to raise a toast to your war heroes. Clink your glasses. Another sword is sheathed.
You may wonder where that little voice went, the one you occasionally entertain between campaigns. It's pouring out forties with me, and won't be back by dawn.
Doing mass "found stuffed in corners" laundry I just throw everything in and hope for the best. Knowing there's a decent chance some shit's gonna get shredded, but knowing that for every article of clothing there's a reasonable enough facsimile to make any one item's demise a non-issue. Although I haven't felt particularly attached to any thing recently. Moving bags of random remnants, I heard some clinking from a cluster that could have been coins rumbling together, or could have been some shattered fragments of ceramic or glass. For a brief moment I expected to tense up. I couldn't find it in myself to care. I'm going through the motions of moving, but these items are so alien to me now. A Winnie the Pooh lamp I've owned as long as I've been sentient. A limited edition Beatrix Potter Barbie. All sorts of trinkets and papers and furniture and none of it seems to mean anything at all, not even in the pretty things I like to have in view sort of ways. I can't think of losing things right now in a way that equates to loss. The only things I care about are the things I've
gotten stolen from other people. Pictures and memories the rightful owners can't save, so I do.
I lied about the furniture. It's all fucking milk crates.