So, when I was in Basic Combat Training for the Army, one of the guys in my bay (barracks) said something about someone he knew.
"Oh, yeah, when my buddy was in Basic, he and his platoonmates found all sorts of contraband in the ceiling tiles of their bay. Porn, smokes, all kinds of stuff."
Naturally, being the horny, nicotine deprived young men that we were, we immediately began checking the ceiling tiles above our bunks. I was on the top bunk, and so had easiest access to my set of beds' ceiling tiles. I carefully removed one of the white acoustic tiles, and found myself staring at a whole village.
Surrounding the tile I'd taken down on all sides, was a small community of rock people. The smallest was about the size of a quarter, and the largest was maybe the size of a big strawberry, but each and every one had a little face drawn on it. Some angry, some happy, some sad. Some with angry eyes and maniacal smiles. Some of them had little tiny props, like guns made out of twigs, or axes made from twigs and little chips of stone.
With each face, drawn in permanent marker, was a name. Jackson, '98. Kindred, '01. Hoss, '97.
Every man that had slept in my bed had left his own little rock person. There must've been 50-100 of them. At first, I found it a little creepy. There was this tiny village of warriors ready to cook my head for invading their home. After a while, though, I found it comforting. I had my own little personal Army looking over me while I slept.
One of the last things I did before I left the barracks, was place "Kennedy, '02" in his spot above the bed. He's watching over some other soldier now, and hope that he brings the same comfort for that soldier as his little rocky tribe did for me.