"Where are the butterfly wings now? Where is the rattle of the tin drum? And the luminous floating hair and dazzling eyes? Where is the hand on the bow and the glowing red bull? Where is the summer, the corals and the tall growing reef? Have flashed through your head, like a distant dream from the mist on the moor; The years have descended in the east to the light behind the sea. Who will gather the rain from the icy living flesh? Or write to the perennial days that go into darkness?"

Imagine defending a 3800 trade route with 19 fighters and an ion turret