Wrote this particular tidbit on my way to work.
You don’t go to war; it comes to you. Sometimes, it’s subtle, a nuanced whisper in your ear when you look at a dead dog or a child’s toy laying forgotten amidst the grey rubble of a shattered residential street. Other times, like now, it erupts, profane in language and intent, and the conversations it sparks among its participants is no less so.
I can’t imagine that I’ll do much with this. I liked it when I wrote it, but now it looks clunky.