numerous autographed copies of the book on my shelves, and I think that if I could burn these books one at a time, these shelves would eventually be bare, which is something to be looked forward to, but it also means the end.
They killed you, but first they forced you to tear down your own house. Emplacements needed, additional open space for traps and mines, or perhaps the commander simply found aesthetic pleasure in empty ground. Any member of your family who could stand was expected to participate. To the children, this was a game, as every tragedy becomes a game; for them this was a tremendous lark, because they didn't have to go to school, because there was no more school, and this was just another event in a continuing stream of good luck. They would pull nails, point them at each other like weapons, line them up in the corner in efficient little rows of
 | | five or ten. And you could only lean against the tattered walls and stare at them, and wish that everyone could free themselves from the need to grow, understand responsibility, be a productive member of society. You weep into your smudged shirtsleeves at that thought, but still you are under orders to destroy, even as your arms hang tired and useless at your sides, and the soldiers are beating at your back with canes, but you do not feel a thing, your skin is one big callus. It was in your best interests to proceed slowly -- the longer it took, the longer your own death was postponed. And yet progress was unstoppable, and you watched as shards of home drifted down the river, mixed with neighbors' detritus. Once the roof was down, the soldiers would spread lime everywhere, and at first dull outrage washed over you -- What was foul and polluted about my home? -- but this gave way to incomprehension. Why not assign this task to
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