Berlin was cold.
Disconnectedness was mean:
Mad sectors of spy versus spy.
Yet,
In the end,
Information with passion prevails,
Permeates walls,
Perturbs the politic.
Paper. Scissors. Rock.
Influence disseminated.
Are we not all Berliners?
2 thoughts on “Clausewitz, On War, Book 1: A brief meditation”
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Clausewitz wakes at dawn
A dream … new machines … same men …
whose torch lights the way?
Clausewitz Teutonic prose
Squinting in the dim light of the nightstand lamp
Sharpie in hand, hesitating
Wishing he had a beer