I missed the call, slept through the sirens. Alarms ring that I don't hear. It's long past evacuation, but my slumber's deeper than the fear. My waking hours know trepidation, thus eyes closed tight against the sun. I've considered my position and found no reasons to run. I have no instinct for survival. My will to live is pillow soft. Perhaps that's some indication of our state. I stand against, though horizontally.
I want to see this algebra cut into the surgical spotlight og hourly life, chained to the bedpost of modern man. The strongest will is the weakest life. I want to see the algebra cut in two. I've got to know why you left. I want to know why you said molotov.
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