Grimmity and desole', I have awakened to the New Thing. I was born to ancient rhythms, and I slept in them as a cradle for sixteen earth-clicks. And then POW I'm floating down the Bardo to some SexWorld, where I have something Primary it seems, since all things are magnetized and move to my sense and will. It feels the same, smoky and dark and hopeless, but the breeze is blowing over the sway-bridge, and there are birds whispering, and the sun is oh so bright, and I feel sand in my soul -- six bodies, six souls, six works of the True Art, all surrounding me, caressing, shushing, and then -- wild-eyed tears from faces that are beautiful and terrible, too powerful to bear, I cannot, so I close my eyes. A Lucky Traveller, I sense, but I cannot make sense of this floaty drippy real, where I am borne and thrown and washed clean by purple oceans.
I staggered up, to extreme complaint. And fell, since legs don't work the same, some jointed arrangement unremembered by my pathways, but I stagger up again, and this time, I'm a Motor. Cruise down the slip, looking for answers, and receiving advertisement wisdom, and nought else. There is nothing for me, and I'm too far away from my birth-beach, I can feel the draw, so I return to be buried in them, and there is a strong feeling of rightness in this, so my new person tells me with the crackling fury of good nerves, the sense of Good Pathways, the altered state of my frightened child. Back to sleep.
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