The bombing will begin soon. Our voices are not loud enough, our indignant anger not hot enough to stop it. Everything I do now seems so selfish and pointless because it happens in light of such unnecessary death death death. Worrying about running out of salsa for my chips, or briefly considering buying the new Peter Gabriel CD. Splurging on ice cream. Buying a new pen. All of it, even the least of my daily acts seems to contribute to the developing War Plan.
It suddenly makes sense to practice some sort of mortification, like the saints, to keep my soul bright and hard like a diamond. Flagellate myself with a barbed whip. Wear a hair suit. Take a vow of silence. Do something to keep my unwavering and bloodless eye on the daily atrocities so I don’t forget the screaming missiles, or the screaming dead, or the screaming world, collapsing in on itself, tier by tier, like a giant wedding cake melting in the sun.