They were captains at war, listening to nothing but screams. Majordomo, majordomo! Each in a floatboat made of rubberfoam and painted with the blood of the favorite children in symbols understood only by those dead for a thousand years. Between them a mountain of salt water, obscuring their view of each other, raised up by a hesitant leviathan, unsure of itself, frozen by hunger, self-rebuke and indecision. All the soldiers were dead, but because war was their only recognizable business, each was recycled a hundred times to try out new strategies of murder devised by majordomo, majordomo. All the gold was used up, all the precious rocks and fat from the ground, but the captains whispered into the air new laws to ensure that murder was its own end. And so this bubble drifted away from the heart of God and scraped against the wall of the universe until it finally slipped through. To a cavern unbeknownst to language.