The high waves were ominously splashing above the ice out on the edge, while I scratched out 15,400 more lines. Inevitably, counting to half-a-million will lead to some days where the counting and marking become a sort of peaceful mantra - maybe not comforting, but expected and familiar, like the end of a long run for a runner. I wonder if soldiers ever get to the point where a patrol or even a killing becomes so familiar that it feels good - God forbid.
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