February 11, 2013

Me? Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m just a few pieces of skull. I think there’s a bit of tibia over there by the scorch marks, but I can’t be certain. You don’t know my name. You don’t know how old I am. You don’t know where this happened. Why start asking questions now?…

I will say this, and then we’ll move on: Somebody knows my name. There are people out there who are crying and enraged, and they don’t care what your reasons were. God, what if I were a kid? Ugh. That’s just wrong. Anyway, they’re probably putting it on some crap-bag TV channel in a country whose name you can’t pronounce. There are probably plenty of people who are going to remember this for a long time. They will make a plan.

That’s, of course, what happens. You guys do something, and then just walk away, and they don’t even teach it in your schools. The administration’s drone program is a kind of anti-education initiative. A way of keeping you from learning your own history. Believe me, it’s been done before. So it’s left to the locals in a thousand foreign places to keep the record. To keep score.

Then one bright, beautiful morning, you’ll learn who I was.


— Paul Bibeau, a message from some bone fragments in a place you’ve never heard of

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