He walked sluggishly, head bowed, down those streets. His eyesight lacked the sharpness needed to see clearly, a condition he had come to regard as a blessing rather than a curse. For over two hours, his gaze had met nothing but destruction and ruin in every corner it touched. Even after his journey led him to the city center, he encountered every form of suffering: emotional and physical.
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And when exhaustion became unbearable, and fatigue gnawed at the last of his strength, he began to imagine.
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Before the war, his imagination was filled with drawings, games, and paradises. But now that the wondrous mind of a child had faded, his visions turned to fire and wreckage.
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He looked up at a towering building before him and imagined a missile brushing past it, tearing down its tightly-knit structure. As he pictured this scene, he was suddenly met with the very image his innocent mind had conjured. He could no longer distinguish between imagination and its grim reality, not until a storm of sharp iron shrapnel came crashing toward him.
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