My feet as they walk feel splinters beneath and of course in the dark, as dark as it is here and has been for years, I cannot see. I pick up and feel, I feel beneath me, my feet. The shape is wood broken or shattered but the smell is thick with something else and the texture is hollow or printed. These are not words. This is not textual evidence. Bone. This is bone. The taste is of them, these people, and the always consumption of one another, their tongues lapping, dogs in a tar black dream. My arms are white columns, holding a piece of it all to my nose and mouth, inhaling new. Beneath my feet a disintegrated bone-yard of them, these people I have come to see as night, a village before dawning, shrouded. My feet walk on something other than words, worlds, the strike of bone-splinters and their cluttered ground language, hearing them out through my walk, my walking, the feel I feel, the pieces I pick up as I walk, walking on their backs and bones, their fragmentation, their undoing. They have come undone under me.