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In the beginning, there is chaos. There is form, but it is unorthodox. Unorganized. Riotous. There is color, but no order. The peacock is the sun, and the sun is without light. This is the paradox of life. In the beginning, there are no principles, no foundations. Everything is tumultuous, the explosive decompression that follows the infinite density of the focus, and the world is an untamed profusion of blood, bone, and flesh.

Man does not know himself in this time. He dances upon the hills, resplendent with his peacock crown. His staff is filled with pure light and, when expressed through the pinhole of his cock, it is an eruption of rainbow heat.

The massa confusa is the firstborn child of primal chaos—the eidolon, the dybbuk. Man, firstly born in flesh from mud, does not know what lies within him. He does not feel the hard permanence around which his flesh and soul have been wrapped.

White light. Red earth. Pale flesh. Ruddy blood. The elements must be separated, distilled, condensed, incinerated, buried awhile in the ground, and given nourishment until they flower.

This is the restraint of life. In the end, there is precision and purpose. Nothing is unfixed, and discordance adheres to the architect's blueprint. The foundation holds.

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