But I Remember Being Told That The

You Want To Fall, That's All. You Think It Can't Go On Like That. It's As If Your Life Is A Perch On The Edge Of A Cliff And Going Forward Seems Impossible, Not For A Lack Of Will, But A Lack Of Space. The Possibility Of Another Day Stands In Defiance Of The Laws Of Physics. And You Can't Go Back. So You Want To Fall, Let Go, Give Up, But You Can't. And Every Breath You Take Reminds You Of That Fact. So It Goes.

It's Not Just: You Get Off The Plane, You're Back Home, Everything's Fine. Maybe The Physical Danger Ends, But Soldiers Are Still Deeply At Risk Of Being Injured In A Different Way.

There's Something Immediate About The Experience Of Reading A Poem. It Makes Sense In My Own Mind, But I'm Trying To Figure Out A Way To Articulate It... It's Like Looking At A Painting: You're Able To Take In The Totality Of The Work All At Once, And So Processing Whatever Information That Painting Is Giving You Is Almost Secondary To Simply Apprehending What's In Front Of You.

I Knew That At Least A Few Of The Stars I Saw Were Probably Gone Already, Collapsed Into Nothing. I Felt Like I Was Looking At A Lie. But I Didn't Mind. The World Makes Liars Of Us All.

I Can't Envision An Honest War Novel That Left War In A Positive Light.