He doesn’t know he is walking the dead. He doesn’t know he is dead either. He walks the dead, day and night, by land and by sea, past the stretches of memory. He doesn’t know how long he will have to walk, how far north and how far south, how far east and how far west.

The thought of direction, of destiny, of a point of arrival, like an insight extracted from a perturbing sight or a glimpse of light in a blind dark night, torments his walk. He walks and walks until he comes to the field where they dropped dead like flies in a pool of light. He recognizes the faces, for they were all alive once. Only he knows they were alive once, for no men, no women, no children, no journalists, no embedded moralists, no risk-taking leftists, and no bushbiting infidels will come forward and say in plain English, these men who are now dead were once alive and well. Read More »