Crowd. Heads to the horizon, drawn one at a time until they become weather. Someone kneeling in white, someone bent over them; across the fold, a figure with both hands up. A march is a crowd holding one sentence — the picture is what happens to the sentence in the crush. The crowd is scribble that never stops being people: up close, every figure is a few fast marks; step back and it's a nation.

Peace is the title. Hands up is the picture.