At this very moment there are people out on the roads, pushing rackety bikes loaded down with everything they own, while a line of ragged children clings to their skirts. Together they stumble across shattered fields, toward places they cannot begin to imagine, from places they do not dare to remember. Friends, these people have seen the earth crack open at their feet, and loved ones tumbling into the void. For them the sky has truly fallen--its jagged shards lie all around them, the bewildering wreckage of someone else's war. And these people, these bereft, they wish never to be reminded again of the good things that have been. Of sweetness on the tongue, the gift of a flower, love-making, quiet talks, long peaceful mornings, warm nights. Even now, even as you read this, even as you grope instinctively for the mouse, even as the cursor seems to skim of its own volition toward "Back," and you begin to anticipate the next shining window, the next view, the beautiful illusion of travel though you never leave your chair, still these people stagger under their heaven of lead, crossing their valley of bone.