So I've decided to accompany these sketches with a bit of a monologue
"The grit. That's what I remember most about those days. The texture was like sand was everywhere. In every bite and every breath had a kind of grainy feel to try and ignore. Gritty clothes. Gritty skin. Gritty sex. Hehehe. Try drinking with all that going on. It wasn't as cold as they say it was. Not to me at least. I guess I might just like the cold but I kept myself so busy I didn't really notice the climate, not in any personal way at least. We had a job to do. To hell with reasons and rationalizations, there was a task to be done and we did it. That's no reason to be proud, mind you. What I'm trying to say is that right and wrong didn't matter to me or anyone else. We had our orders. Nothing else. It's simpler that way. Isn't it?"
