By The Reverend When I was growing up Vietnam vets were still feeling the sting of the jungle. The government had fucked its bright-eyed boys by sending them out to die in the name of some faceless authority figure’s agenda. To add insult to injury, they’d dumped foul chemicals on their own troops so that
You don’t come back from a war alone. Anyone who knows a combat veteran will confirm this. The past, provided it suffers sufficient agitation, is a restless entity, forever disrupting the causal linearity most of us take for granted. “Every love story is a ghost story,” David Foster Wallace wrote in his final novel, The
