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She finds an image of the
snow banks, drawn, painstakingly,
over the course of a winter. She lifts
up the page and below she finds
ashes and ashes, only drawn, grisly
things like body parts and
eyes, maybe dead or maybe alive.
She remembers who drew it and
that he spent years at war, jumping
from cave to cave and then to
hollowed out buildings. She remembers,
suddenly him telling her tales,
deep tales about the nights he spent
watching flames
and wishing for a cigarette and not allowing
himself to conjure up
memories of what a toilet was
and how it was the best that men
could do.