10.22

My hands are raw and my soul is weak from my work in the rendering plant. They never admit, when you're working there, that the same process that renders bone to meal will slowly consume your own body, but they don't have to tell you that. You just look at the old men who've stood as the old guard. They move like wooden puppets that creak at the joints, their bones long since turned to meal and replaced with union loyalty. I suppose that's why I'm still here: I'm waiting for my replacement bones.