the game is in the trenches. bullets wizz by making us afraid to stand and walk out of our mud-hole our filth hole.
... to stand
we might get torn to bits. or, upon our walk across the green of the battlefield, we might find the true happiness. we might look the shooter in in the eye and he will elect not to fire. we might be the ender of the war, the influential tinkerer of history.
... or, we might get torn to bits...
so in the name of fear, we stay in our hovel. and the blood and mud and stench stay with us.