For Robert Watson Not so much walking, as rocking side to side, each step an inch at most, like a wind-up toy.  It's a long hallway, but it's early yet.  Boiled vegetable puree and chicken broth again.  Everything hurts.  Most of all, the children.  Sleepless nights, unawakened days.      Brethren will come when it's too late.  there's nothing left but to linger.  The road ahead is grim, thin and grassy with the passage of too few.  Most are gone by this point.  Darkness ahead, night or stormclouds low, forboding, without promise nor purpose. Was there ever hope You know, I belong to an Organization