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By: Duncan May

It's that time again. Men rushing to their fighter-bombers, an empty and desolate sense pervading the air; these pilots know this could very well be their last flight. The sky brown, the earth red. Most of everything existent has been destroyed, and more destruction will come. The lighting of the day is dim, a soft red glow. A fraction of the former white light is all that remains. There is desparation in these times. Everything is almost finished, but it isn't done yet. Almost, remember I said. You can see that in each man's eye. A sense of utter determination. The thought: the world is not over until I die, and as long as I am alive, there is hope. There is always the possibility of being snuffed out by a missile, in fact these days, a likelihood of that. However, it is obvious that until that final moment, hope is not lost.

Wars have been fought before, and wars will always be fought. Its just a shame, really, that the world is like this. What happened to the 1990's? What happened to wealth, water, and food for all? Christ. Humanity came close, so, so close. But now, no. Even the pilots, today's most elite, the best of all, die daily. The best armour plating, the heaviest weaponry, the newest technology, and still they die. We die. Ah!? When did existence become so bleak? Has it been always? I don't know; I don't know. I do know that in five minutes I will be taking off, and that in thirty, I will be dropping bombs on somebody. Somebody who undoubtedly thinks the same things that I do, breathes the same air that I do, and wants a beautiful future like I do. Man kills man for want, for want of exactly the same thing it seems. Ach, the futulity of war. There is no glory. Nobody will return home for a medal, nobody will tell of his feats of war to his grandchildren, nobody will have a woman to comfort him. There is nothing romantic about this, it is empty. I am empty. I am war. We fight and we will not cease to fight, but the only thing that each man has is himself, and nothing more. Everything dies alone. Sure, we all try to share, but it is impossible to bond, impossible to know the person sleeping in the bunk atop of you, for you never know when it will be his time, and you don't want his time to be a hurt, a pain. I can't know when my time will be, but I know that it will be.

I hurl plane and myself into the air, along with the rest of the wing. Alone, alone, along my path I fly, doing my duty alone, helping everybody, I hope.

I pray for the world.




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