there is the mound, hard, not soft. it is a sensation that sounds like cleft, it defies the definition. it arises in this moment with the intention to open, it is cleft from the first stone, the first mound to rise from the sea.

i sit here on a lump of rock, afloat in dark space. water echoes somewhere as it drips. . .

consciousness flows in, pours through. it is porous.

i am porous.

there is a robed man, he kneels near the stone. he is afloat in infinite space. he is kneeling beside an underground lake. he is praying.

a light grows from the darkness, a light descends, ascends.

he prays with an image, he holds in his heart an image as vessel. the image is filled, divine.

the guardian descends, he speaks, and i see in his hands an egg.

the egg is broken, the shell is thrown aside. the yoke shines like the sun, the white spreads, it becomes a storm of pages, it becomes the doorway to many worlds.