Nothing's managed to keep me from you yet.

Woke up this morning with a small, distant voice drifting through my head, singing, singing. Here, the sad lilt of an aria, a little Italian that I know and she knows better, hummed idly at half voice that still shimmers from the influence of her aborted training. She was good. I bet she could have had a career.

I'm coaxing a few more sketches, too, and god damn, she looks so young on the page. It seems a shame, to have not even two decades on the face of this planet when the civilization that raised you collapses overnight and the monsters are suddenly worse than you've even imagined.

I do terrible things in fiction. (auto_destruct is equally culpable, here. To be fair.)

Need to get some fixative for these sketches so they don't smear all over the bloody place like they are already doing.