small paper bag filled with tiny white shells gathered at the cemetery

near Edam, a town a few kilometers from a fisherman's village; the

cemetery lies at the fill dam, a hill ten meters high, heavy gravestones

made from shale and granite, paths leading between neat plots

absorbing steps as if you are walking on a carpet, and after a while

you notice it is not sand nor macadam, you are walking on billions of

tiny casings – most often grayish blue, in several hues of ochre and

brown, yellowish and dirty white seashells, their striped, lumpy,

smooth, insides grounded with a thin layer of pasted sand, rims always

chipped from abrasion and stepping on, too small for anyone's ear

(deaf?), protected by stone fencing and the wall of the great church

(cattle were sheltered inside it once when dams spilled over and fields

were flooded) from wind and gusts of rain coming from the North

Sea: innumerous (dead) dots and dashes, light residue of rubbed out

color, porous remains (from what?), inside them there's no whirr, dry

cough of the dead