There were bones. Lovely bones. Crumbly bones. The yard was full, the field speckled. I saw the End there. On the open planes, filled with crimbly-crumbly bones. These bones were dry, these bones were brittle, but these bones were not the End. They were not its child. The bones had come long before the cessation of history. They were different, but the same. They were unequal, but the same. Every bone had its own place and own shape; they each had their own length and own strength. But they were all dry, crumbly bones and they lay in the field with the End. The End was not sudden, the End was not fast. The End started while the bones were not dry. The End did not count time; it did not see the turning of the star or the moon. The End simply was not, and then it was. No one saw it happen, they only whispered, whispering bones. They knew the End was coming and they feared it. For the End is a creeping snake. But there were those who did not know what they could not see. The End would come, but it was not here, so why fear it? Why whisper? These bones were dry. These bones crumbled, crumbly bones. And they were with the End, but they were not the End.