Butterflies Are Not Free

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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The inner maze was a mosaic of blacks and grays. Through their constituent pixels, the children, blown up, were still sharply imaged. Dotmottled boys and girls were still irredeemably immersed in the immediacy of childlife with toys, booksacks, uniforms, frowns, and smiles; their curiosities, anticipations, anxieties, and vacancies pinned. History, which to these survivorscarred memorialists seemed an overwhelming shockwave inexorably hurtling them futureward with no sweet prospect of shelter, was to these still children, absurdly, inconceivable.



The inner maze was a mosaic of blacks and grays. Through their constituent pixels, the children, blown up, were still sharply imaged. Dotmottled boys and girls were still irredeemably immersed in the immediacy of childlife with toys, booksacks, uniforms, frowns, and smiles; their curiosities, anticipations, anxieties, and vacancies pinned. History, which to these survivorscarred memorialists seemed an overwhelming shockwave inexorably hurtling them futureward with no sweet prospect of shelter, was to these still children, absurdly, inconceivable.