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a hollow voice that chilled the very
marrow in my bones. "Be still
deluded mortal, I bear no forethought,
forethought is Bunk!
I am the ghost of Norris Fussell's
muse. Forethought is Bunk, bunk
bunk, bunk, bunk! Chanting the
word, the vision marched with
noiseless tread slowly through the
wall. Wiping the cold sweat from
my brow I pulled the covers over
my head and slowly counted sheep.
Thousands and thousands of sheep.
But the God of Slumber was not
in the market for sheep that
night.
In desperation, I sought refuge in
contemplation of the past. I reviewed the
marching hosts that made great Ceasar
immortal. I rode to victory
with Napoleon Bonaparte, agonized with
him at Waterloo and closed his sightless
eyes at St. Helena. I kicked off
the blankets and was soon shivering
with Washington's barefooted army
at Valley Forge. Piling on the covers
again, I sweated up San Juan Hill
with rough riding Teddy Roosevelt.