○ Peace... Heh, there is nothing peaceful here. There are no bombings, no screams except for those of babies; yet today they are calm. The gentle wind rustles the branches with their spring leaves, that familiar sound reminding me that the cycle has once again begun. How many times has it been now? How many times have I lived through this scene?
○ Over there, the children will die, the blown pieces of their bodies bouncing about like skipping stones. The screams of their mothers and fathers; the rage of the soldiers; the laughter of the observers—it’s all a numbing pain. I wish to see, hear, and speak of it no more. I may never break their cycle, but I will most certainly break mine.
○ No one here cares, though. They just want to be heard. They can do nothing but produce white noise; these creatures are not my friends. They would enjoy my suffering and relish my anguish. All the love I wanted to give would mean absolutely nothing to them. So when the bombs do fall here, let them scream; let them die. Let nothing change. You all brought this cycle upon us, so suffer through it, and I will just sit here and listen to the swaying leaves.