Just For Once I'd Like To See

Who's They?" He Wanted To Know. "who, Specifically, Do You Think Is Trying To Murder You?" "every One Of Them," Yossarian Told Him. "every One Of Whom?" "every One Of Whom Do You Think?" "i Haven't Any Idea." "then How Do You Know They Aren't?" "because..." Clevinger Sputtered, And Turned Speechless With Frustration. Clevinger Really Thought He Was Right, But Yossarian Had Proof, Because Strangers He Didn't Know Shot At Him With Cannons Every Time He Flew Up Into The Air To Drop Bombs On Them, And It Wasn't Funny At All.

Man Was Matter, That Was Snowden's Secret. Drop Him Out A Window, And He'll Fall. Set Fire To Him And He'll Burn. Bury Him And He'll Rot, Like Other Kinds Of Garbage. The Spirit Gone, Man Is Garbage. That Was Snowden's Secret. Ripeness Was All.

Catch-22 Did Not Exist, He Was Positive Of That, But It Made No Difference. What Did Matter Was That Everyone Thought It Existed, And That Was Much Worse, For There Was No Object Or Text To Ridicule Or Refute, To Accuse, Criticize, Attack, Amend, Hate, Revile, Spit At, Rip To Shreds, Trample Upon Or Burn Up.

Destiny Is A Good Thing To Accept When It's Going Your Way. When It Isn't, Don't Call It Destiny; Call It Injustice, Treachery, Or Simple Bad Luck.

I'd Like To See The Government Get Out Of War Altogether And Leave The Whole Field To Private Individuals.