Superficially, normal people. No visible hints to battlefields and trenches. But beneath and between, a velvet War of the Roses, made of armour and retreats and attacks. Right now I’m in a state of emergency, just anything – even a pen falling on the floor – upsets me like an atomic bomb. Just anything can hurt me to death and make me bleed, and at certain moments I’d give anything to see the enemy collapse, to see fear and terror in front of my power. Usually, though, I’m the one who gets the worst bruises. Where’s love in all this.