The store of bones waiting unseen, dry, waiting for collection, by the cosmic bone grinder from a secondary ship and quietly so. It creeps in and slithers out, a wisp of a sigh is all you will hear. Total specifics, still largely unknown, but the bone collector grinds to dust bones of dead men, forcing as atoms of dust through vortexes, to reform through collectives. To evolve beyond the now posed and poised waiting for the next round for they are more than dust.
Dom
Put the finger on the Cummings stop him dead. A destructive creature is he, before the beak he should now be no later than tomorrow. The jail cell is ready, there is a bed, water, a piss pot and a public toilet, you smell of corruption you will soon come to the alter on judgement day.