So, I’m at this point right? Where everything is on the verge of conversion. About to converge with something much greater than myself. I mean running of the bulls right. Or two rams battling it out to win the mate. Only the mate is the world, and the loser will be shocked and absorbed through those horns, those complex intricacies of antlers sucking in the life blood power of the opponent, fusing together to form one ubernatural beast that can’t be spoken to or reasoned with for it is beyond the trivialities of language. It only knows intention, thought disruption parameters makes markers, sets up markers around the perimeter of where once was a man, in his place are taped lines, long lines of tape, recordings of what once made up a man, and now it’s not even digital, merely a light film upon the hallowed ground where once he walked upon.
They say that in the evenings you can hear a howling, a certain cry, a crying out, no pain, or sorrow, it is a beauteous tale told through the night sky of gods that walked the Earth among the men and women and played with children as though ’twere a child. They say that if you look out on the new moon and you can see a shining, coming down from heaven and lays it’s light upon you, your eyes. You’ll be blest twice over, and good fortune will carry your family for three generations. But you must bow before the light, as the radiance bows to you. Bowing, to a radiance that is known to too few.