Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony—Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?
Tomorrow; a place with more suns in the sky than you can count; a place not like today or yesterday…a place where things are better. That’s where I’m going.