I sat in the middle of the battle field where the blood spilled at well and the negotiations were futile enemies placed where innocent faced and bystanders were insufficiently lowered by standards as the landscape was raked and seamlessly raped almost simultaneously at a going rate of one third of a mans opposite of his own fate and the feelings slizzard like a snake which drove most to shaken faith the smoke and filled lunges and the barrels of guns as fathers died for sons and sons died under the sun and shadows placed over their cold faces as their lifeless bodies were forged for valuables even with tables turned it was hard to pay attention his life story with a lesser page never making a descent wage but able to hold his younger brothers hard earn waking up in cold sweats unwillingly playing back abrupt memories that left his mind burned and everything else he can live through is just bandaged scar tissue so think about what you write about when telling stories about this block life and all its hypes because you can tear down or build up a mind's hight because your story can change a story instead of helping another story reach its glory as another issue in the front of a obituary....