Turning with robotic stiffness (that many years under the occasionally muddy dust, and your bones stick to each other... when your teeth clatter, you feel it too well down in your feet, and when you try to write on a rough paper, your backbone feels every little woodpulp ridge), to face the enemy who has excavated, and so accidentally activated, this evil writing scribe, buried here for bad words so long ago.     When I had this thought, I saw pictures. I saw a man I had never met.