Why my fixation on that first sepia of a great monitor, laid up after the gunfire and sniper, in an estuarine anchor, quiet, peacefulled, emptied and gutted to faux accounting and ersatz ledgering. Abandoned, purposefulness evacuated. She had shelled and shelled and shelled. Great 12 inch shells, and no victory was one. Why did that first scene direct my gaze upon, as I opened the book, so many decades ago, in a library in
The photograph haunted my young mind then and haunts me still as I seek quietude.
The contract phase kicked in again as I reconnoitred the lie of the land some years later when I read of the famous Prinz Eugen who had not sought her final rinse in roiling hot water at
CV3 caught it, a cherry tree felled at last after unstinting service, in the well.
What to say?
As a forensic story teller I can cash in on the untidy endings left naked shorted like the gold filings soon to be melted down in a usury insurance fire.
Here we go.
The legend of our demise is not the truth of the given, it is the realisation that all must be weighed under the heavy light of reality. So I try to explain here only a tiny part of the unreality of our halted love.
If an infinite space can exist in a bounded state imagine what we could achieve, as our selves, free of the monoheathen and their state of poverty in every perverted way.
God or given debt god?