My childhood was spent wondering who lives behind those monstrous facades. Was it a driver, or a gunner or a silent controller? I would wake up in the middle of the night, when the facades started speaking to me.
My son does not waste time. He just jumps on to the other side, and operates the machine.
The thought of a wasted lifetime has been troubling me ever since. Why does it take another generation, at another level, to help us see the flaws in our thought process?
I ask my mother, and she looks unconcerned,
“It was your choice.”