This paragraph came to me out of no where -- I think it'll go towards the end of the book, but I really don't have much context for it yet...
"There was a moment then. As their bullets traveled far across the land, scarring unknown swaths of dirt. What might they be murdering out there, in the dirt? That moment, that thought – brought another vision riding on its haunches. A vision of me taking my rifle, the one leaning across my shoulder and resting its cool neck upon my own and turning it to aim at my own heart. It would be an awkward look, unwieldy to be sure, but I sensed that others had done it successfully. It would be a small target to eviscerate, but larger than the cricket or the worm that was just struck by one of their playful bullets out there in the wastes of the rest of the world that I cannot see. My heart, a small target indeed. What would it feel like? A bullet passing through, the softness of my muscle morphing it forever – from cylinder to mushroom, or would it—
“Eddy boy, what in the barreling fuck are you doing?”
In some meditative state, it seems, I had started turning the rifle towards myself. I couldn’t bring myself to answer him, so I had just laid the weapon down and started to walk away. Wished he had punched me. Or kicked me in the back as I left. But he didn’t. And the shooting continued."