A distillate, by it's very nature, is purified, clearer than that which is left in it's wake. When we talk of finding the heart of something, what to make of the rest, of everything that is flayed away searching for an imagined greater truth. Then comes Victor Frankenstein in the boneyard, with a Tesla coil and a wooden wagon with a creaky wheel. Looking for freshly turned earth. Chances are they're only a few feet deep, it's cheap work, and they get lazy, same as anyone. The spade sinks right in, the ground is soft. It's been a wet spell. The townspeople will be raging soon, but tonight, they sleep.