Its dark in the portal, as dark as the inside of the womb. We are being birthed. Its quite here except for the sound of rhythm pitched just above the hum of white noise. We are traveling faster than light; its impossible to calculate our speed. We are a blur. Do not drift into our lane.
The multiverse is in labor with our efforts. We will soon emerge from the portal. But for now we are caught in the rhythm of being born.
We have become octopus, many hands emanating from a single body.
We travel on faith, eyes closed not to miss the rhythm. No sight necessary. One common goal. We are now us. We are hitting our stride. Our hands are outstretched and we are snapping our fingers in time to the rhythm. Its almost time to dance.
Have I told you what fine dancers we are?
The theater Godz are chanting, rolling bones, smoking big cigars in a room not far away from our stage…we can feel the vibration of their drums.
We are laboring in the dark. Becoming.
Candels have been lit, bells rung, gin poured, scrafices have been made.
We wait & we work.
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