Twenty-eight years in that godforsaken jungle.
Killing soldiers wasn't so bad. I hardly remember it.

But burning those villages, watching those naked peasants cry...

I see it every day. It's not PTSD, it's the drug.

It's only been a week, but it feels like a year.

Every word is getting longer, the mosquitoes are getting louder.

When the drug runs out, time stops, and you're stuck in the jungle forever.

It's... grains of sand in a shrinking hour glass.

I know what comes next. I need to ask you a favor.