There is no introduction, no fancy words, only the stroke of a brush painting in blood, building of castles in the sand.
   To you who are reading this: No, I don't know who you are. Somebody will read this, or has read it, I know that. In the casket before you, you will find everything that has happened in your past, present and future. Study them. You may try to change what will happen. You may succeed. You may not.
   It's a strange thing to sit here, in this distant time and place, and know that this will be read, not only in the future, but in the past as well. And that it will Change the Universe, change it irrevocably. Something happened once, turning a leaf, turning a stone, and many stones were turned, and many leaves were cast in the air. And no one may say where they will fall and rise. They will fall and they will rise. I know that. You know that, too. In a Universe with no constants what so ever, these are two. There is birth. There is death and rebirth. We are the song of the Universe...
   This is our Life. We are re-enacting, reinventing its horrors, joys and dance every second of our nights and days and...
   And Shadow.







Mists of Time And Shadow are drifting
Across the fields, inside the forests.
The lizard king is biting his own tail.
Time is folding back on itself time and time again.
The Universe is Vast.
What may be true once may not be true twice.
The Phoenix is rising and its fire is casting ripples through reality.

A glowing pentacle in the sand.
A nest of sticks and bones.
The desert sand is blowing
The desert sand is whistling
In our ears
Whispering incantations
Of Life, Fire and Death

Distant butterfly wings
Writing in the sand
Flapping for thousands of years
Whispering in ears
Of suffering souls
Strands of night and fire
Are finally rising















   Cold sweat break all over me.
   I can see the Tapestry unfolding, like strands of night and fire. I can see the waves collapse. I'm observing action and reaction, cause and effect constantly folding back on itself.
   A warrior unending, eternal is falling, not through Space, but through Time. What happened once may not happen twice, or thrice. The Tapestry is ever changing, ever shifting, as reality itself is turned inside out. Yes, the fire-eyes, created by Life, created by Fire will ever be the song of the Universe.

   I can see slave laborers toil under the whip on the Konya Heights in ancient Turkey, on the Salisbury Plains on the British Isles, see them die horrible deaths in the Arena in Old Rome.
   I can see flashes of Shadow in the coldest of ashes.

   There is a tablet in gray hovering in the air. It's not one of stone, but more formed out of mist. On it, in the many-dimensional space there are figures moving, some alike, some not.
   The Tapestry is constantly moving and changing.



















   Our story runs deep...
   Thousands of years into the past something happened. A door, no, a portal opened, gave way to something dangerous, something inevitable, infinitely precious.
   We are The Wild made flesh, untamable, a primal scream in what may pretend to be an orderly existence.
   Humanity has sought too long and too far outside themselves, and misplaced their way. But we have come now. We have always been here, with them, always been them, even through the rise of civilization, and we will be with them through its fall. We were there, at the beginning of the Universe, and we will be there at its end. And Beyond. We are what survives.
   I've heard it be argued, and I believe it to be true, that Life is the Universe made flesh. But if there is something to it we are the Universe' return... its return to Fire. After all the embers have been put out, all the ashes spread with the wind...
   We are still There. We will always be here. Kill a thousand of us, kill billions, it doesn't matter. Is it possible to kill Life, to extinguish Fire?
   The resurrection dreams are always with me. I can hear the flapping of wings, sense the heat burn in the wettest of oceans. In the sea of eternity The Phoenix is waiting, biding its time, waiting for the moment to burn, to rise from its ashes of its own fire.
   What has already happened is waiting to happen again.









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