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They giant gray ones plod through black heat and dust to honor the bones of loved ones. Gently picking them up with tender tusks. Like wrinkled professors wielding pieces of pocked chalk sniffing the air for inspiration or perhaps a reason for it all. The plodders must move along as their ancestors suggested. So, this chain of struggle and damnation moves along. All of the watering holes are drying up. They must move far away from the bones of memory. They must find that vein of silver amidst the blackness. To drink heartily- to play in -to bathe in-to pray in.