Tracing the dry, wrinkled pages of his old journal, Simon couldn't help but smile slightly. The corners were bent from days spent writing amateur song lyrics and ranting about geopolitical problems that seemed so small now. Everything seemed small now, really. After the Rising, after what he went through -- there was very little that shook him to his core like things used to. He skimmed the pages, eyes catching on select words and phrases every now and again, the familiarity of them ringing in his head like memories from a past life. In a way, it was more like deja vu -- like his life was wrapping around to form a giant circle of “objective events” that had happened to some close friend, rather than himself. Closing the book, Simon sighed as he brushed his fingertips over the overlapping band stickers peppering the front of the moleskin in varying shades of grey, purple, and red. Perhaps he had not moved on as much as he had thought.