Dear Diary,

Me and all my friends, we burned through Paris, holding hands on the rooftops, anger in our hearts, love on our faces. We discovered through secret passages and strobing lights, that we could be unstoppable. Sneaking into the old abandoned hospital, we stayed for hours, swung pots and metal pipes into the already broken down brick walls, danced around the fire we lit in the rusty bin we found.

In the end, when the smell of gasoline and blaring sirens overwhelmed me, when I'd walked through every street of the capital, I left so my lungs could once again feel clear, letting go of every hand that'd been guiding me through the thick smoke along the way.

The loneliness must've been there all along, but alone in the woods, I drowned in it. Never again would there be that familiar smell of pollution, the glares, all those place I hated so much. And every now and then, my hand reaches back for the hands that made me brave enough to survive it all. In the end they were wrong, there is love in the jungle.

Wicked Witch of Winchester's Dear Diary