I phone my mother.
Ask her how she's going.
I'm ok she says, but I'm afraid the world's going to end.
She's been watching television.
Here we only get the papers every few days.
The net is too slo-mo for sensing the mood of the generals from our desert cyber hut.
I try to say something reassuring but it's hard.
I know what she means.
And everything I say sounds banal or fake.
My dreams are filled with madness, crashing planes and talking babies.