[sprawl he did- stretched out all long and lean and lazy like a tanned cat on familiar cushions. He remembered helping them pick out the sofa, helping them move it to this exact spot for how the light would pour through the windows and warm the entirety of it. A sunbeam for a Crow. He's not left alone long enough to doze but he's halfway there all the same when Eugene returns, the smile he offers open and lazy.]

The war or the winning? The war was horrible, as most wars are. The winning? I do not think the truth of it has sunk in yet. There were ceremonies and drinking and dining and dancing but I was simply struck by the fact that I have no where to march, no target to kill, no goal for the first time since I was seven.