I look at the combination of those red and blue storage containers set against the white snow (and grey-white sky) and I can’t help thinking that if the red, white and blue doesn’t run, it sure can fade.
The Death of Russian photographer Dmitry Chebotayev.
In my nightmares, the helicopters still come out of a dark sky, two black spots barely visible against the backdrop of night.
Their swirling blades grow louder until they finally touch down on earth and fall silent. They look like giant steel bugs from another planet, bulbous robots with eyes of glass coming to take away their prey: seven human beings who woke one day in Iraq not knowing they would be dead by noon.