Making Sense of Spit in the Wind

The days were a blur of sand, wind, and sketchy accomodations. Though he had a notepad filled with notes on soldier after soldier, Capt Dogra wasn’t sure he’d done anything productive. Perhaps it was sufficient he had born witness to their pain.

That was something, wasn’t it?

In the pitch black of the landing zone he decided to block out the cavorting of his fellows. They were terribly amused by a demonic looking goat with glowing horns. Some grunt had decided to waste what looked like three or four glow sticks’ worth of goo decorating the poor beast.

Ear buds in, the young captain tried to make sense of the trip, four days, or was it five of hopping from isolated post to far flung base. He talked. He would send medications. It felt like spitting in the wind or flicking at a brick wall—ill advised and ineffectual.

The familiar song mocked him in the darkness, reminding him of the feeling so inimately known, “…that everybody’s on the stage, and you’re the only person sitting in the audience…

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