The innocence

He was only an artist, and could not be expected to have known. He painted what he saw, and sketched the things he had not seen on thick white paper with cinderous charcoal. He created, and forgot; bore, and abandoned. He could say, quite honestly, that he had never considered what happened to his offspring. He had a woman to see to all that.

A thousand reporters could have asked, and he would never have disclosed his reaction to the Party using his design. To – how many was it? Ah yes – two billion people recognising it. To two billion hatreds.

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