thedrizl

When I was eight-years-old, war looked like shiny little plastic army men and black & white jet airplanes landing and taking off from carriers; groups of rough looking men decked out in olive drab, taking a rest to smoke some cigarettes and wipe the sweat and dirt from their faces; the jubilant celebrations of the troops returning home from the front (because, you know, we always won because we were always the good guys). For better or worse, these images now apply only to nostalgia.