It couldn’t see, it couldn’t hear, it couldn’t taste. It was a gun of sorts, a weapon of his own devising. But they feel vaguely cheated, unfulfilled. You say it’s not personal, but she told me I started this war.
—from the pillow book of Doctor-Lieutenant Chië Nakada Nakada followed the subaltern along the glassed-in promenade deck of the hospital ship Mappô Maru. Smiling, I sat on the gunwale in front of her. The coracle leapt forward like a springing bird, and left the shouting and the blood behind. Del’s paintings lined the room.
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