When you’re at war, you barely have any idea of what a dead man is. And you certainly don’t know what to do with one. They’re everywhere—seen, smelled, and heard. Some you might know. You might think about stopping, taking his hand, or reassuring him. You might want to dig a grave, carve a headstone, and make sure everyone knows there’s a dead man there.

But in war, you all look alike. You stare at a dead man in the mirror, shake his hand, watch his back. The sun is a dead man. So is the gun you carry and the food you eat. Dead men kill dead men.

And what do we do with all these bodies?

You can carry one for a while, but eventually, you’ll tire. You’ll set him down, reach into the dead sky, grab a dead cloud, and place it under his dead head. He’ll be cold, but he’ll sleep well. Dead men need sleep, right?

When will you rest? You keep moving, carrying these dead men, killing them, crying for them. Are your tears dead, too? Little dead men rolling down the battlefield of your cheeks?

You hate dead men. Why are they still here? Go away! You’re dead already, let the rest of us die now.

You envy them, then you pity them. Can’t make up your mind, can you? Can we all stop dying already? Can’t it just stop? Why do dead men keep killing, especially each other? You’d think, at some point, they’d look at each other, take back their bullets, and apologize.

Do you apologize to a dead man? Do you think it matters?

Just to see, you say “my apologies” to every dead man you pass.