They are the "Mozarts assassines" of which St. Exupery (himself a military pilot) wrote, the little people nurtured to mere utility like so many rows of hothouse vegetables, their living tailored to the convenience of industry, politics, war--to the service of Power. When a town is there, a town is there for a reason: this one, to embrace the little children of the Bomb.
By day, they are allowed to hold the reins of a force they are not allowed to understand: and at the sounding of the horn they scramble home, to small tin rooms that shiver as they wrestle for a semblance of love, which is another force they are not allowed to understand. Young men and young women hungry in innocence, endlessly breeding innocence in the lingering twilight of that first false dawn.
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