A truce had been called in the Neverending War. But like anything written on paper but not in men's hearts it held only the value of its ink. The two sides faced off against one another in Grand Illusion, suffering under the pretended peace that starved their war lust (those who liked peace were shot later on). But the wound that withered them all - the high ranking, the young, the grizzled, the cowardly - was the silent secret of knowing not why they warred.

Oh, everyone knew officially why and constant speeches were given to explain the goodness of killing. Only one thing bothered the listening troops: why was doing good needing so much explanation? But when told to drink the killing Kool Aid as their duty, good soldiers complied and died. They were told they could make the world a better place one dead body at a time - even if it were their own. And though a thousand inner voices wailed against the imbibing of The Lie, one assumption stood out among the others as the Fact To Trump All Facts: love could never be made to work. And that left war as the only way.

The battlefield was lunar with merely a few burnt shards left smoldering like the souls that smote them. One man was nude, having sex with his tank, he loved his war machine so. Another licked the blade of his knife, marveling and giggling at the dripping blood it caused. Another had forgotten every letter of the alphabet so as to never understand a voice again. In many ways does war cripple, leaving a greater fear of innocence than death. But now the paper made truce left them pause to eyeball one another and speak their bind.



"I hate you!"

"I hate you back!"

"You killed my best friend!"

"You killed my brother!"

"Your bombs killed my mother!"

"Your bombs killed my country!"

The rages of sin. Unrealized was the fact the bombs and bullets and brainwashing belonged to the Grand Puppeteer and not them. Like chasing the rainbow, salvation lay just beyond the hill if only they could kill just a few more. Yes, they could see the end of this rainbow, but never reach it. The Puppeteer held paradise out as an unreachable carrot - and since the truth would not suffice, this hopeless carrot must do. No baby is born with dreams such as these.

As always with Paper Peace, it only took one shot to break it. Nobody knew where it came from but the gratitude was universal. Time to kill again! Time to take revenge for Love's failings. Time to shoot the dripping tears before they drop. After all, what is war but a war with oneself? And that which is inside must become outside, the Law That Traps Us All. But now was the time of death, and truth could wait its forever turn - the allure of Sanctioned Sin proving too much.


With the kindling of a single shot shattering their illusory shame, previous positions of powerlessness were resumed, each hard helmet craving praise for beautiful behavior of beheading. But suddenly, like a splinter in the eye, a Flower was spied upon the terrorized terrain. How could this be when Death rules the day? To the war machine must every living thing bow - that was the beauty of war! But this Flower still standing - mocking them as it were - uniting warriors on both sides in a common foe. The Flower chose life without their permission!

Artillery ranges were set and dozens of doomed shells descended to the Flower's perch. But the shells of men could do no harm to this Tulip of Truth. Seeing this, the warring ones decided on the clear and obvious path: use bigger shells. But the more they bombed the more defeated they became, infuriating the typhoid troops (though some did laugh). A tank tried to run over it but merely ended up tipping over on its side, spinning its wheels like a helpless turtle on its back. Just who did this Flower think it was!

The Flower Phenomenon sparked dire debate among those who think and those who do not.

"This Flower does not fit any rules of physics or science we know! It's like saying we do not know everything!"

"Of course we know everything. Isn't it comforting to think so? So the the Flower is a lie! There is no truth but our own!"

"But if the Flower exists and what is happening is happening then is that not science since it is true?"

Morty and Shellee, the ones who planted their love as a Flower, silently watched the charade from a high hill. In sad amusement they heard the faithful folly of disingenuous discussions which were really just a series of men talking to themselves, signifying nothing but the speaker. Men of armored pride must decide to either live with the liberation of defeat from a flower or fight in futility to the end to ensure their lives were wasted. As usual, the Glory Call to death screeched over the voice of reason.

Flower Phobia rippled through the world, consuming it with the fear of an Intolerable Reality. Control must be seized once again! But the harder they tried, the more they died. Then Panic possessed their souls with their precepts of reality blown away, gone with the wind. Such were the last cries of the suicide victims:

"Why live if I can't have the truth I want?"

"I have no soul if the Flower wins!"

"I must be allowed to lie! I'll never get laid again!"

Soldier upon soldier died in vanity as dreamless destruction erupted night and day in quixotic quests for heaven through death. Liars struck by sudden sanity jumped to their deaths like loveless lemmings. "All my life is ugly and if one beauty lives my lies mean nothing." In the end, each who sought to destroy the Flower destroyed themselves, leaving only the meek who blindly embraced this Eternal Flower. And in this way the world was purified into an Endless Smile, and useless swords beaten into plowshares.

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Now down to business: