In the little dream, the woman spoke backwards and shone like the daystar. I was made of a kind of singing milk, and the moon was a relative that could speak by shaking the milk. Some things seemed mixed up; the moon was a man. I knew that the stars also dreamed, and that the speaking of the woman was like a fish that swam between them.

In a cave, deep beneath the earth, a man who was also a baby was writing the holy secrets in books that looked like treeseeds. No one would ever understand. But the walls of the cave were reading the shapes he made, and transmitting the content back, across the worlds, across the stars, across the rivers of time… into the heart of the secrets themselves…