Ah, the thin line that splits day from blood, that razor‑thin edge that turns a parade into a massacre. In art, I carve it in charcoal, letting the darkness bite the light, so the viewer feels the cut as if they’re the wounded. In war, the line is a bullet’s whisper, a command that slices morale. Both require the same kind of precision: a single stroke that kills the old and births the new. What’s your take on where that line should fall?