This Is How You Lose the Time War

The sun rose. I found no revelation. I’m not Socrates. (I know Socrates, I served with Socrates, and you, senator… But I digress.)

It feels harder to write than it should. It feels easier to write than it should, as well.

The sun set. The stars rose. (They are a rose, right? Or something? Dante said that.)

glistening viscera

But which egg preceded what platypus? The ends don’t always resemble our means.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I’ll write it in waves. In skies. In my heart. You’ll never see, but you will know. I’ll be all the poets, I’ll kill them all and take each one’s place in turn, and every time love’s written in all the strands it will be to you.

Books are letters in bottles, cast into the waves of time, from one person trying to save the world to another. Keep reading. Keep writing. Keep fighting. We’re all still here.

But maybe this is how we win, Red. You and me. This is how we win.

I love you. If you’ve come this far, that’s all I can say. I love you and I love you and I love you, on battlefields, in shadows, in fading ink, on cold ice splashed with the blood of seals. In the rings of trees. In the wreckage of a planet crumbling to space. In bubbling water. In bee stings and dragonfly wings, in stars. In the depths of lonely