“Things become quieter, but the cries do not cease. “What’s up, Albert?” I ask. “A couple of columns over there got it in the neck.” The cries continued. It is not men, they could not cry so terribly. “Wounded horses,” says Kat. It’s unendurable. It is the moaning of the world, it is the martyred creation, wild with anguish, filled with terror, and groaning.”
