The battle between perfection and imperfection—it was everywhere. Each of his problems revolved around that delicate horizon, where a mysterious, unreachable blur held all the answers he needed. He hated that blur. He hated that it was everywhere tainting every bit of clarity to which he clung. He hated that he saw it in his own mind, his heart, his family, the war. He hated that every blur became associated with the place he'd seen the blur from the very beginning—her eyes. Her disgusting, filthy, unworthy, beautiful eyes became the only place where he could find the smallest hint of relief in the midst of the shadow. For that, he hated her most of all.