Flirting with Disaster psp Drop Zone dvd 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.
He thought it through, and he knew that he was their only hope. He came to them with this knowledge in mind. He didn’t come to cheer them up. After all, he can’t promise to restore them to life. He can’t even promise them the illusion of remembrance. But knowing that he was the only witness to their death on that night when the sky was enveloped in light as if the day that passed decided to come back and rape the sovereignty of the night; on that night when the light proved so eloquent that they were fried by the sight, on that night of September, not that same September, to which he was the only witness, he decided to come to them.
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He doesn’t know what to say to them, for he knows they need a witness and he was the only one, but he hoped that he could come to them searching for a witness from among them. He wants to make sure he will be remembered and he needed a witness too. Being the only people he knew, now and then, he thought they wouldn’t let him down in times of scarcity. They are dead—that he can tell. He is dead—that he can tell. They are all dead—were he to see, were he to realize, were he to reassure them? Yet, who would tell?
All he needs is a witness and he would give his life for one. My life for a witness, he screamed and screamed again, my life for a witness. Death—will you be my witness? Death—will you bear witness to my life—my life? Death—do I qualify for a coffin, a grave, a stone, a name, a note, a handful of tears? Death—do I qualify for a ghost? My life for a ghost! My killer, beware of my ghost! My dear dispossessor, your soul will be my witness—your soul will be my ghost! My dear oppressor, I have been walking the dead without a witness, and I came here to bear witness to those who died without a witness. I came here, and I am no witness, to witness my death through your eyes. You took my life! You took my life! You are my witness! You are my ghost! I am your soul! Sleep no more! Sleep no more until I die, until I die! He screamed again and again. But he was saddened by the echo of his scream falling on his ears, piercing his flesh, raping his soul, and he stumbled and fell. Falling, he felt better, for the earth took him.