The end came easy, warmth slipping in over the cold, the promise fulfilled. But before this, the fire’s raged. Burning the treaties of peaceful men. Bullets flying about like dreadful gnats. All these young fish brought out of the sea, only to become their own ash, spread out upon the lines that divide. Never having met one another, who’s to say of the conversations they may have had, as the tanks tread over their remains. Who could foresee that the creation of the wheel could bring forth such things, our own innovations becoming our final cremation.
– Josh Fleming
Image from: Flickr, The Commons, Library of Congress