War grows within war. Lapping up the blood shed by violence, feeding on wounded flesh. War is a perfect, self-contained being.
Haruki Murakami
The opposing purity of nature, of the grass waves that bath in the sunlight, of the sounds of grasshoppers and the reckless bloodshed that just happens to occur in that perfect, sincere moment displays how small everything is. The overwhelming tragedy persists, it never seems to vanish, but everyone finds something and gets a hold of it.…
