Foxholes. I create them, though not purpose-driven. Not thoughtfully, but thoughtlessly; blasting holes in our landscape so I, the privileged, can have somewhere to hide when the shelling is over. They are an accidentally useful side-effect of the words I throw at you in the heat of a moment (live ordnance meant to find its target but destined to fall short when you're so far away). Craters I slip into when the ratatat machine gun wash spatters across the muddy field or craters I find when you fire back with "Oh, so now women are responsible for this?"
"I said some women and you know it."
Foxholes.
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