Early Man ate juicy steaks using no plates indeed, unless there was a
plethora of flat rocks around. Early Man, sitting there, gnawing — men
in iridescent white robes, nacreous, shiny robes, stroll through, lost in
conversation, their hands behind their backs. Early Man, squatting,
chewing on gristly bones among the bushes, watching with angled wary
eyes. But the body language is calm. The men in robes never attack.

The men in robes are speaking of temporodynamics. The bones of time.
Early Man's teeth crackle and pop on the bones. The robes of the mentors
whisper in the morning and sparkle pearly in the pared-down pear-colored
sun sparkling on the pearly blue-white fresh bones clutched in the hands
of the hairy hunters.

Early Man hefts a bone, dropping its lethal joint into his left hand. He
knows better. The men in white would vaporise him. His steam would rise
as vapor to the blue heaven above.