Paper Man

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In war men pass like shadows that stain the grass,
Leaving their lives upon the green,
While Earth bewails the crimson sheen,
Men’s dreams and stars and whispers all helpless pass.

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The epitaph for Man: ‘We did not have time to learn everything that we wanted to know.’

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The sky above the port was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel.

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You never get used to the feeling of hot metal, entering your skull and exiting through the back of your head. It’s simulated in glorious detail. A burning train through your forehead, a warm spray of blood and brain on your shoulders and back, the sudden chill - and finally, the black, when things stop. The Archons of the Dilemma Prison want you to feel it. It’s educational.