The battlefield
modern wars? No, honestly I think the current approach of the American army is not modern. Yes, granted, they use already pretty nice toys, only to be ultimately but drawn from Muslim, equivalent to a bunch of peasants armed with pitchforks into a second Vietnam, but ... "Modern"? Definitely not.
The real battles of today are in fact no more little things for political, religious differences, or simply discharged pure greed. No, the real enemy of this part of our humanity, who is also known euphemistically called the "First World" is, quite simply anything but we . Every situation, every object, every damn still so harmless looking atom can always strike back at the crucial moment and leave us highly developed and spiritualized, to give wirs but actually pretty cool creatures very old and in serious cases stand dead. And although none would admit that most of us can sing a song from this problem, and each of us secretly admire Farin Urlaub that he does just that simple.
But this is not the lonely struggle of a Wannabe Punks against his fridge, this is about a much bigger battle: the crushing defeat of the army bestöckschuhter tomb Chicksen against anyone other than the most brutal of all the enemies - the reality.
Who will be gone that night, like almost every Saturday in the church, the grand Acting may have observed that announced itself to me shortly after the Altona train station, I wondered already, why put any practical jokers on the snowed and mirror-smooth pavements lots half full black garbage bags, had the slow night in the wind gusts moved back and forth, when suddenly shot from one of these bags a bloody hand, tried to hold my leg and a very half-dead-sounding female voice at me with absolute power, it managed to send a rasping "help" up to my ear. Startled, I spun around, only to stumble on the last leg I fully available, and in probably a very unsightly rotary motion to lie on the cause, which turned out to be so much answer can view as a Goth-cutting in paint-covered clothes. She had since have been lying around for an hour, when I went to the pool of blood, resulting from the body which in better times was probably time of transition from their platform boots to rest her leg at a time across the protruding bone and then the floor poured - and, given its rapidly weakening Stöhnlaute and the fact that the basement entrance of a neighboring house has a pack of rats with large eyes on her Mitternachtsmahl waited, I had to find that it too late for them was. Since nothing more could be saved, Darwin would bring them within the next minute in their very own little hell and hopefully inculcate her for her next reincarnation, but next time that they wear to the disco should leave if they because necessarily require, to carry this footwear, except that Dran-licking really holds no even vaguely recognizable sense.
Do you know these films, in which only becomes a "personal" disaster showed the camera moves back in this very moment and you realize that the scene of action in the middle of just at the height be located Apocalypse is? That's how I felt when I roused myself again and this poor creature was so long in the head until she had finally taken their grimy paws on my leg. Because when I went on from there towards the church, was from the streets of my battlefield. Everywhere in front of me, behind me and around me were small female picture of misery in a thoroughly respectable clothes, most have long since dead and the other on the verge of complaining, moaning, waiting for that from somewhere the saving troops doctor comes and they returned towed to base camp , but just knowing that they're at it, breathe out their life, and for what? Ten centimeters damned and the chance to possibly are now finally time to fuck. That is no reason they went into battle against the outside world, and of course happened, what had to happen: They have lost big. None of them has reached the port of saving, and everything else the world will remember about them is that for an evening of church parking lot looked like the heart of Braveheart, as the reality of playing off their toughest asset: the cobblestones.
Today I will lay a wreath at the church to remember what has just happened - half of the resident black scene has terminated in a hopeless strategic move by itself. And the world just goes on, was still there, and let not impressed at the very low ones.
So much blood for such a stupid purpose ...
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