The world is a vast expanse of land, forests, rivers, tears and glimpses of laughter, overheard from a distance. The world is shaped like a tilted rectangle. It tilts to the left if you watch it from above where there is safety. It tilts to the right if you watch it from below where there is warmth. The world is not infinite and yet you may not ever know it in its entirety. It escapes from your grasp through its detail, its unpaved expanses, its glittering towers of steel and glass, it dark alleyways littered with trash and moist with fresh spit, its closed locked doors and its vast open skies. For as long as you may ride, you will not come to fully recognize the world though it may come to know you.

In the middle of the world lies the dusty valley of wheat, rags, boots, brown skin, red faces and dirty blue trucks. It is a place that sinks into the ground by the weight of its many layered memories. It is a land that was lost before it was discovered, became lost again right after and has now settled into being lost in the midst of maps, certainties and directions. The dusty valley opens its wide invisible legs to push out life so that others may bite at it, tear it apart and spit on it after it’s gone. The others will eat of its flesh and then forget. The valley will continue to forgive and open wide, breaking its very bones in the endlessly painful sacrifice of birth.

In the south of the world there is a large flat haunted land. Here the inhabitants long ago looked in the wrong direction and they were turned into an ocean of salt, a salt that looks back with sadness at the aeons that have passed. From the salt come tiny scratching noises. If you listen carefully, each noise tells the story of a lost friendship, an unforgiving love, a family that has fallen to disaster, a son that has lost himself in the mazes of no return. The memories are all etched in the burning hot salt of unrelenting forgetfulness and they wash into each other to form a land with no name and no destiny. To travel there is to be brave and to be ready to face the ghosts of all faded memories that come to reclaim what is rightfully theirs.

Between the land of salt and the dusty valley, there are unreachable arid lands of sand, dry bush and snakes. Here there is heat and sweat and rocks and elusive figures that wear multicolored robes in the haze. They tell stories that are not true and they sing songs that have no end. In the midst of this land of trickery, the water is scarce and there are no shadows. When you walk here, you soon find yourself alone, surrounded by shimmering lizards and the wind shaped remains of those that came before you. From the heat that lies on this land like a great blanket of heavy wool, great red forces burst forth. These turn to yellow turmoil and in this turmoil they turn into the great blue winds of the goddess mother. Somewhere in the coast, a woman shivers on a balcony with the cool breeze that emerged from the lowest place of all.

To the west is the ragged coast of deep blue waters, great sharply refined cliffs and flat silvery beaches. The coast is a long tendril pressed against the edge of the ocean by mountains and cities. At the point where the cool water touches the land, you may find the gods of disruption and triumph. They are treacherous. They may lift you to the heights where your body will shine with electrical blue rays of cosmic purpose and the others will chew on the remains of your dead skin in an effort to share just a hint of your unique radiance. A moment later the gods may release you to the depths where your skin may shatter and your breaking consciousness will spread in all directions, floating on a river of refuse and filth. The ones who have knowledge ride the waves of raw power with only a flat board and the sound of echoing electric guitars as their magical tools. Many lie forgotten in the cold depths underneath.

In the southwest is the greatest city in the world, the town of our Great Lady of the Winged Ascended Masters. The streets and buildings vibrate with intense energy fueled by desire, ambition, hope and lust. The invisible wings are highlighted in the colors of brilliant glory and final resolution. The wings sometimes break open to reveal dark claws and fangs that spill acid and blood. When you see this, you know you have been tricked and there may be no escape. Look to the ocean or to the land of salt, where you may find redemption. The heart of this great maze is an underground complex where tiny men in blue suits construct new dreams for those that have run out of their own. Here they eat away at the bravest warriors and repeatedly violate the most precious virgins. From their semen and their blood, they create vast and complex dreams of copper, gold and steel. The dreams are carried away by black birds to distant lands that have yet to be discovered.

In the northwest lies the city of hills, cradled by cold water on all side and crowned by the horns of the one who lies waiting in darkness. Here there are no virgins to be violated or warriors to be eaten. Here there are men who give themselves as women and women who take each other as men. Here there are tales of great achievements constructed out of dirty sofas and piled up books. Here a girl lies waiting in the early morning while there is a knocking on the wooden door outside and a radio plays a droning guitar from behind the wall. At night, there are blasts of electronic force that endlessly repeat at one hundred and forty times per minute and divide the dark matter of the lit darkness into windows of time. The creatures of fur and leather and neon and heels dance in a final gesture of defiance. They may not have reached the heights of the winged masters in the south but they will build their own dreams out of plastic, vinyl and rust.

To the east of the world there is a great snowy range of massive rock. It is shaped like an enormous trapdoor. The height of the rock slowly increases on the west side and falls suddenly into the oblivion of the east, where there is only nothingness. Eruptions of titanic lust form the liquid pressures that find their way down the great cliffs to relieve the dry lands below. As these swirling masses of cold love descend from the heights, they find moments of quiet gentleness broken by sudden rocky turmoil and soul rending leaps into blackness and the finality of clear stone that soon brings the gentleness back to life. Among these heights live the old men that have no hope and have no sadness. Here they sit without judgement and without aim. If you come across them, speak as much as you may or simply stay quiet. Their answer will forever be the same.

If you are strong and resolute or have somehow accumulated a great reserve of the golden fluid that the city dwellers most crave (for all other treasures stem from it), then you may come to sit in the midst of the great stone temple of the mountains. Here the oldest and greatest of giants look down upon you, from the depths of time, the future and the past. They emerge with piercing eyes from the depths beyond understanding and they surround you with the cold simplicity of the Eternal. There is no argument possible and no question to be raised. Here in this temple, you face the truth, in its unforgiving completeness, its ancient firm heaviness that knows no end, its endlessly reborn lightness that knows no beginning. Sit quietly here and stay for a short while. There is nothing to accomplish. There is nothing to fear. Know that someday you will be back here and you will be part of the cold river that flows at your feet and the distant pine forests that cover the great stone shoulders of giants.