We rose from the bones and the blood.

Bare feet move across a wild landscape. The sun sits mighty in the sky; painful flash of irradiated white against cerulean, cobalt, azure. The island buzzes with sounds, cicadas and crickets in a whispering cacophony of earth’s music.

We were born of bones and mud.

A chaotic city landscape rises just over the horizon line. Three bodies transverse the jungle, machetes in hand. Something stirs at the center of the flesh like a calling – we knew that the state of our surroundings was in need of repair, of healing. We made teas from tree bark and circumnavigated the fire. We brought the sickness of the city into ourselves and turned it inside out. From human misery, we created songs. We suffered and allowed the stingers to penetrate our skin. The venom sank deep and the sickness stirred to life. We sank to our knees and vomited.

The purging was endless and unavoidable but the fire burned bright like magnesium. We swore to forge a path through the endless flora; wild onions and wheat grass met the blade of the machete and bowed.

We found oneness and wholeness and insanity.

When the shaking subsided, there was evening. We counted the stars in the palpable, tropical night. Sparks rained down. The sky opened out, black and endless, pouring thick, onyx liquid into our skin. Browned by the sun, we awoke from the night, a thousand dreams bursting from our lips.

We lay on the ground and the ocean washed the dreams away.