The jars on the shelf; he noted how light some of them had become as he took them down. He scraped around the edges of these vessels, amassing what residues he could to bolster his dwindling supply.
On the table: flesh, bone and sinew, composed by the hand of either God or some predecessor into an ideal shape. Masterful. Beautiful. But with its reality existing only in form, useless and cold; no better on his table than a statue in a museum. Perhaps worse.
Whether there had once been any spark to move these organic gears, he did not know. Yet as time passed, the question mattered increasingly less to him. All he knew is that others before him had been successful under similar goals, and if they could do it, he had to possess the potential to be equally competent.
Ingredients thoroughly ground and mixed in the old mortar, he took the knife. A quick slice along the palm, coupled with a wince and a sharp intake of breath, produced a tiny stream of blood that he funneled into the mortar th