The gods are talking behind our backs,
and the garden echos whispers of truth.
Such faint whispers, but their reach is unquestionable.
I must burn the garden to the ground.
And with the first flick of my thumb,
and the first spark caught on the vent of exhaling gas,
I set the garden screaming.
The screaming streams of smoke seem endless.
And so I breathe in deep.
I hardly hear memories from the past over the screams of the smoke.
And the howl of the smoke pushes me farther.
And farther, and farther, untill my eyes grow careless and my actions impulsive.
And all that I have left is instinct.
And I become fearless as I face what terrifies me.
And the smoke guides me.
Off the narrow path of what is relative.
And into the world which is everything.
