It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre
and it always is, except for the birds.
And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like 'Poo-tee-weet?'
An American who's been through WWII seemingly with PTSD appears to cope by escaping into his own book-inspired world where he's captured by extraterrestrials who can see the fourth dimension, time, and who believe what occurs does so because it must, because that's how the moment's structured. His sense of time also seems entirely disjointed, to say the least.