There’s this book, Giraffe, written by J.M. Legard. The story tells a real tale of forty-nine giraffes who are slaughtered by Czechoslovakian police in hazmat suits. Arguably one of the more depressing works I’ve ever read — harsh truths and undisclosed secrets.
“The Dresden feeling comes at me again, not precisely of a firestorm, horses, or broken-necked giraffes, or even of this necropolis of marble gravestones, lungs and twirling pigs, but an understanding only that we are bound together, all of us, by suffering, even more than joy.”