A flustered young man begs to cut into the water line. He shoes his plastic canister. The line twists to make a place for him.
Since he's already loaded his canister, he hurries to the end of the street and gets hit by a grenade. All that's left of him is a b***** trail on the pavement that's like sap but is easier to clean. Just then it starts raining and everything gets washed away: not even a trace of the young guy is left, nor a trace of the canister. Just water. As if nothing on the street changed, except everyone got just a bit quieter.
In the daily reports-when dozen of shells hit downtown, when snipers are in action and only a few have been killed or wounded-we are informed that a relatively calm day has passed.
Since he's already loaded his canister, he hurries to the end of the street and gets hit by a grenade. All that's left of him is a b***** trail on the pavement that's like sap but is easier to clean. Just then it starts raining and everything gets washed away: not even a trace of the young guy is left, nor a trace of the canister. Just water. As if nothing on the street changed, except everyone got just a bit quieter.
In the daily reports-when dozen of shells hit downtown, when snipers are in action and only a few have been killed or wounded-we are informed that a relatively calm day has passed.