Satisfied, he contemplated the Milky Way, the army of bones that encircles our planet. It sparkles, glitters, shines with all its myriad little skeletons that dance, jump, turn somersaults, do their duty. They welcome the dead from their thousand fields of honour, the honour of hyenas, adders, crocodiles, bats, lice, toads, spiders, tapeworms, scorpions. They provide first counsel, guide the first steps of the newly dead, who are wretched in their abandonment, like the newborn. Our repugnant eminent cohorts, co-brothers, co-sisters, co-uncles and aunts who smell of wild boar and have noses encrusted with dry oysters, are transformed upon dying, into skeletons. Have you heard the appalling moan of the dead in slaughter? It's the terrible disillusionment of the newly born dead who'd hoped for and deserved eternal sleep but find themselves tricked, caught up in an endless machinery of pain and sorrow.