I thought it would be easy for me to write about the destruction of Dresden, since all I would have to do would be to report what I had seen.
And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.
It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre.
Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds. And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like “Poo-tee-weet?”