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They say politics is the art of distributing pain. And scriving, of course, is the art of distributing intelligence. I wonder—sometimes with excitement, other times with fear—what will happen when the two shall meet.
How many realities have I killed now? How many stories have I suffocated and replaced in panicked moments like this, all to win this miserable war?
“When I was young,” said Polina as she crossed the room, “I thought of war in terms of swords and spears and shields. But now I know it’s maps, and more maps, and calendars and timetables, and shipping lines and item counts—and then maps, and more maps again.” She stood next to where Berenice sat. “It’s deadly dull stuff, to be sure.”
<I don’t know how to tell you not to doubt something you’re actively experiencing,
