Entrenched. Knife sharp. Mask tight. No man's land a scant 8 inches of Berber battleground. Facing empires of baggage and flames. Waiting for the horn to call, so I can take my freshly bleached flag, add my tail to the space between my legs and hash out a new peace accord. Seconds pass like hours. The crushing silence of only accents and revolutions per minute. The key is in my hand. A funny little thing that looks like it couldn't unlock a thing.