(The main text of the work begins after Chapter 4, please be patient, the rating is very low when it is first released)
In war, they say, the sky belongs to the shells, the smoke, and the falling wreckage.
I said that the sky belongs to the crows - where they hover, there must be breaths that have not yet died.
Survive? No, we just learned to use our eardrums to identify the direction where the dead nerve passes.
We have never conquered the battlefield, we have only smuggled our own shadows between craters.
Yes, lyricists in peacetime will sigh, and distant spectators will shake their heads, but trenches have always been made of mud and rust, and the mud... Will eventually bury the more fortunate among us.
Poetry? It's just a brief hallucination caused by tinnitus between explosions.
I am Jane Doe, and I will... Live through this day.
——If this can be considered a future.
