Let me tell you a story about war:
A boy spills a glass of milk and his father picks him up by the back of the shirt and throws him against the wall. You killed my wife and you can't even keep a glass on the table. The wife had died of sadness, by her own hand. The father walks out of the room and the room is almost empty.
The road outside the house lies flat on the ground. The ground surrenders.
The father works late. The dead wife's hand makes fishsticks while the boy sits in the corner where he fell. The fish in the fishsticks think to themselves This is not what we meant to be.
Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in two directions.
The wife has a dead hand. This is earlier. She is living and her dead hand feeds her pills that don't work. The boy sleeps on the roof or falls out of trees. The father works late. The wife looks out the window and thinks Not this. Not this.
The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.
The boy is a man and lives in a second story apartment. This is later, the father is dead. The man looks out the window, at the trees. A dead hand pours milk on the floor behind him. The milk says nothing.