Sunday Afternoon
I'm listening to blues/jazz on the net. I'm drinking Johny Walker black.
I'm feeling OK.
The sky won't rain. The clouds won't go away. That's OK.
I watched a movie where the guy doesn't get the girl. He wins a kingdom he never wanted in the first place, but that's OK.
No one calls, no one sends an email, no one talks to my face, that's OK.
The world is all out there, waiting to be had. Waiting for my <iron fist?, no,> guidance. that's OK. It does not need me.
The one in charge falls short. The replacement will too. That's OK. We have had a good run.
I will not lead the world today. I will drink my whiskey and listen to the blues. That's OK.

War is not a Soldier.
When you say the word "war", I see a soldier crouching in the mud, dirty, hungry, tired, scared, cold. Gazing through the haze of battle all around, the soldier stands his ground. A battle takes grows and evolves all on it's own. What does a soldier need to know to fight a war? How can the grunt on the ground know what twisted lies creep in the pride of old men. politicians run the world. Lawyers tell soldiers when, where, who to fight. Lawyers make the rules. Lawyers argue the rules. Lawyers judge the rules. Money buys me bread. Lawyers put up the walls I cannot cross in my free society.