Let me tell you a story about war:
The fisherman's son serves drinks to sailors. He stands behind the bar. He listens closely for news of his brother. The sailors are thirsty. They drink rum. A new ship docks, the Starlight Transport. These sailors have tattoos and blue tongues. 'Blueberries,' says one of the sailors before being asked. Sailors have good stories. 'Tell me a story,' says the fisherman's son.
'There is nothing interesting about the sea. The water is flat, flat and calm, it seems a sheet of glass. You look at it, the more you look at it the more you feel, you feel like you are looking into your own head, which is a stranger's head, empty. We listen to the sound with our equipment. I have learned to understand this sound. When you look there is nothing, with the equipment there is a sound. We sit in rows and listen down the tunnels for the song. The song has red words in it. We write them down on sheets of paper and pass them along. Sometimes there is noise and sometimes song and often there is silence, the long tunnel, the sea like glass-'
'You are a translator,' says the fisherman's son.
'Yes,' says the sailor.
'And the sound is the voice of the enemy.'
'Yes, yes it is.'