He’s the kind of man that has to move when agitated or in some sort of nervous or excited state. He knows it irritates some of his close friends to no end when he drums his fingers on the table, or fidgets in his own skin, or paces around as if there’s somewhere he needs to be but his body hasn’t quite figured out how to go.

So when he finds out his sole job is to walk silently around the city like a dedicated patrolman, he lets out a laugh, thinking for sure it was some sort of cosmic joke. It’s nothing he can’t handle, but when he thinks of war he thinks of the greatest state of agitation, nervousness and excitement.

In that case, the pacing becomes a very subdued and calm way of handling the situation. It becomes meditative, soothing like a balm on the mind and heart, and even though he’s not sure whether it’s appropriate for the situation, he’s still quite thankful.

There are worse places to be, worse situations to handle, and worse things to do. So he picks up his trumpet, and paces for an entire week, so that eventually even the sturdiest of walls will collapse and prove that moving in some way is better than not moving at all.


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