We stand on the wind and drop like heavy stones. Nothing can stop our headlong rush into the void. All that has been is no more. All that will be, will then cease to be and fade into the night. From the heights of the east we flow westward, in great turmoil and force, crashing into each other, wrestling blindly with the remains of ourselves and the visions of our brothers. From the hidden mother we are expelled and rush down the great inclines of rock and sand to the bleeding mother that waits in the valley of wheat and dust. The years in our memories are like grains of sand in a beach that has no end. In our manic rush, we push at the corpses of fire gods and we eat of their burning flesh. In this way, we become more than we were and we now yearn for things we never before wanted.

The very ground beneath us has broken and it now pushes up toward the sky, the tentacles of a demon of stone that dances all around us with the patience of stars, the peaks rise to the heavens in an act of raw will and desire. We have no choice but to re-shape ourselves to this great challenge, curving ourselves into wheels and spheres and tendrils and thoughts. Our collective force carves at the demon, taking only pebbles at a time, but time is what we have, and, with it, we can shape it, just like it has shaped us. We are shaped in an instant. We take forever to return the gift. The fruit of our labors is a great gap where the winds can rest and new songs can be sung. When the songs are soft and tender and our dances slow down to a crawl, we press against each other, tightly, so close and so tight that we become as hard as the demons, as tough as the gods. In these times, we lift them like toys and place them where we want them, travelling over the fog of the dying, we shift the fingers of the world and rearrange them to our devices. When the songs get loud again and our dance is ferocious and lustful, we pull away and once again fall like tears over the faces of silent giants.

When the dances are so fast that our arms can’t extend any further, we reach to each other and form long lines. So arranged, we swivel and churn and jump and shout and laugh. Thus we become one and in being one we become human. We become the eye that flitters, the finger that grasps, the skin that itches, the hair that curls up. Our brethen die in masses, but so are they born. And as long as we maintain the vast and complex shape of the dance, we remain as one. As one we travel where we may not go as many. As one we see what we could not see. As one we tell stories, as one we cry, as one we decay and die.

Here in this place, we don’t forget our origin. We don’t forget that we fell from the great open gap between the legs of the hidden mother and grew so strong as to reshape the world that surrounds us. And so we know our place in the greater realms and, in this forgotten valley, we are killers. He hunt others like us. We reach into their chests and pull out the living truth that beats within it and rip it with our bare teeth, hot and bubbling with the life that is us and that now flows through us and makes us greater. We don’t forget that we dance with the songs of the cold heights and the hot depths, so we color ourselves in rainbows and we let the swollen swords of our lust guide us into great abandon through days of feasting and nights of frenzied copulation.

We don’t forget that we were not as we are and that we will soon be changed again. So we take our little boys and bathe them in the blood of our enemies, and send them crying to face the wrath of the women of claws. We let them scratch at their eyes and pull at their limbs until they can take no more. Then we let them sink into the very current that shaped us. Let them come up when they are ready. Let them stay down if they are not. We don’t forget that, as we are here, there are others who are there and otherwise. So we find channels to call them, we find rooms where we may sing and share, we find questions to ask and gifts to sacrifice, we find meadows where we can be as one again and let them take us as they may. We don’t forget that our true nature is hidden, so we dig deep beneath the ground where the women may not go, and we dance the dances that the women may not see, sending out great screams into the warm darkness of the subterranean depths.

We become old and tired and our bodies are left to shrink into nothingness in the cold currents that come from above. As our arms stop moving and our eyes can see no longer, the pebbles of life escape us and become shiny small stones, the liquid of desire that will change us once again. We become savage men of white skin that scream in lustful joy when we discover the frozen liquid of our corpses. We organize into great batallions. We invent terrible weapons and carry them over the expanses of the known world. We call onto others like us from lands far away to come and help us. We form a great army of lust and desire, saliva dripping from our open mouths even as we die of thirst. We march over valley and forest and mountain and river. Nothing in the world can stop us. For we know who we are. We can still remember. In the nights when our hands are shiny with discovery and we find a dark woman that laughs, then we remember. In the nights when our hands are cold and sick, and the wind gives us a faint hint of laughter, then we remember. We find our old bodies, that still dance in our path, covered in red skin and painted in the colors of the rainbow, and cut them into pieces, eating away at their rancid skin. They fight but they know. The time has come. The time is now. They are us. We are them. We are only here to take what belongs to us.

We let our bellies grow huge and our skin grow ever whiter. We shade ourselves in great mazes of wood and stone, labyrinths of ambition that grow with every breath of poisoned gas. We smoke but only with the grief that is boredom. We fuck but only with the disdain that is judgement. We laugh but only with the death that is hatred. We roam aimless throughout the world. In the midst of our terrible twilight, we sense that something has happened. Something has been forgotten. We have left something behind. We arrive at the ancient temple from which we first emerged and our hearts almost burst with painful recognition. Here we came from the current and once we were so strong as to move mountains and fight with demons. Here we will only push against the ground and break the remaining light of the dawn. Here there will be no more temple unless we do something. And so, in a last desperate instance of true shining memory, we erect an invisible barrier, a magical sigil to barr the dreaming others from destroying their own gateway to remembrance. We hope that our work may not be in vain as we close our eyes and let the cold current take us away.

Now we wander in tiny rolling houses over a landscape that aches with despair. Our last memories are gone. Our dreams have faded. The mazes we built have become so large as to become impenetrable even to ourselves. We hear the new songs but our ears can’t focus and so we can’t dance with abandon. We look out at the great gods but see only the greyness of failure and the terrible sadness implied in the success of others. We gather in small groups to eat, but forget why we did it. We step into the current and never stay long enough to remember, never long enough for ourselves to climb up our legs, into our crotches, up through our stomachs, through our very hearts and scream once again. We drink in tiny plastic cups and throw them over the railing. We know something has been lost but we don’t know what it is. So we take photos of what we can’t see and recount the places that we never encountered. We know now that we have grown weary and the current will come and wash through our decomposing dream once again. It is only a matter of time. And time is what we have.

So we wait for our bodies to once again disintegrate into liquid gold and tears of blood. When the day comes, may we welcome it as we should: with the most ancient dance that is so fast as to be invisible and the most ancient song that flies high above any melody that can be sung. May we gently slide away from the tired old one and become the eager many that is now and forever new.