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| Fifty-eight thousand American dead, average age: nineteen years, six months. Get a driver's license, graduate from high school, DIE. All that's left of them we've turned to stone. What they never got to be grows dimmer by the year. But in the moon's dim light when no one is here, the names rise up, step down and start the long procession home to what they left undone, to what they loved, to anywhere that's not this silent wall of kids, this smell of rotting dreams. |
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| W. D. Ehrhart |
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