Same damn dance as ’93 — big men in warm rooms send boys to freeze in trenches while they argue about maps and flags. I watched the factory turn into a ghost town after the Union cracked, then saw the same boys who welded tanks start smuggling scrap metal just to feed their kids. Now they wave new patriotism around like a holy banner, but the trucks rolling east carry the same fear as before — full of men who know they’re bargaining their bones for promises that’ll evaporate by spring. You don’t need satellites to see this pattern. You need an old man with a bad knee who remembers how the last lie tasted. Winter doesn’t care about elections. It just comes. And so do the graves.
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