It’s strange to think about all of the things that we find beautiful. For instance, a single drop of blood, glistening on a pallet of white snow, or wide blue eyes, glazed and shining, staring blankly up at the cloudy grey sky without really seeing anything, or even a city, up ablaze in the night, flames flickering toward the stars can all be beautiful. They are terrible, yes, but if you look closely, you can see the beauty of it; the striking contrast of red on white, snowflakes reflecting on the blood; the sparkle of those dead eyes, the small curve of their lips; and the ever-moving flames of the fire, the screams of the city’s people making harmonious music to your ears.
Then you take a step back, and you see the true picture—the single drop of blood becomes one of many from a dying boy in the snow, the beautiful blue eyes become those of a girl on a grassy lawn, a knife protruding from her chest, and the flickering fire becomes a flame on the flesh of people trying to escape from the city.
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