The Cone It's a forgotten war. Spiraling burns, strange cancers, shrunken hard torsos like fragments of bleached rock. I've heard it's like that over there – whining assholes complaining about the changes pulling out cost. Pulling out always costs -- people hanging from helicopters or eyes of garnets. You choose. We all remember the Stone Field. Impossibly high horizon, low, stained denim sky. It's a work of art that place. Chunks of dirty sandstone scattered across a striated limestone pavement. The sandstone draws the eye, something about the delicately coloured lichen painted across the russet and gray rock. The lichens are gray and gray-pink and gray-blue and so on. A world of very pale grayed out pastels. Some lichen are like paint spills, others are little sharp florets. Look too closely and time begins to slow, to pass in a slurping stream like hair clots in molasses. Now you have a choice. Go back and take the...