This bunker stinks of sweat and fear. It's humid and filthy, and even though it's keeping us alive it's also killing us. Someday, if we're lucky, we might go back out into the fresh air; but I don't know if we will ever really be alive again.
The newspaper we are sharing doesn't even begin to distract us from our fear, but it gives us something to stare at besides each other. It's weeks old, and I know all of the stories now. I keep reading them over and over anyway.
Somewhere in the world, someone is reading todays news in the paper. Somewhere in the world, someone is reading todays news in the paper... in their home. Somewhere in the world someone is thinking about something other than whether they are going to starve to death before they are blown up, or be blown up before they starve to death.
Before this dirt floor, we had linoleum. Instead of dirt walls we had wallpaper and pictures. We didn't live in the dark like we do now; we had electric light. Before the bunker we lived in a first world country, not some hair trigger banana republic. How did it come to this?