This is an automated entry. If you are reading this, I haven’t activated my deadman circuit in a long time.

I’m probably dead, or possibly captured.

Probably the same thing.

To [ redacted ]: I’m sorry I won’t be there to grow old and grey around the muzzle with you. I hope you’re still alive, or we died together. You taught me what love meant.

You blindsided me with it.

I always had a silly dream of us. If we won, I wanted to ask the interim government for a little section of land down on the Noquinac river. Have a little house with a little garden, a big porch, and a metal roof for the monsoons. Maybe we could have some children sequenced, one for each of us. Maybe three. I would cook, and paint, and we’d waste away our days teaching our kids how to be farmers.

Guess I’d have to learn first.

I never told you, because it felt silly. Didn’t know if we’d survive, either.

Be well, my love. Take care of whoever’s left.

Whoever’s left, take care of my yotie.

Mav, you know what to do with my data cache.

Zori, take care of Mav. I hope you two survive to the end of the war and have many happy years, and perhaps children of your own.

I guess I really don’t know what else to write here. I have a feeling that there’s a good chance we’ll all be dead soon, and it makes me feel better to write this.

I love the world. It really is beautiful, even the ugliest parts.

Somehow that makes me sad.