But the chaotic man lacks form, lacks reason to counteract the heaving passion of his recently formed shape. Whither comes such rationality? Is it the grace and stricture of civilization that tames the savage instinct that burns within the blood? Is it the imprint of fear upon his dark brain, the fear of sin, of abandonment?

The soul is that ignis gehennalis, the sulphuric fire that fills the purposeless with intent. It flows down from the Ineffable, down through the nose and the ears and the eyes; it flows down through the substantia nigra of the brain, lighting it afire much like a match ignites the surface of an oily sea, and on down through the knot in the neck. The soul flows down into the roiling belly of man, down into the pulsating confusion of his groin.

He is no longer a riot of colors once the soul enters him. He is infused with the Divine Spark, and its yellow heat fires him. He is far from complete, but he is no longer formless and shapeless. The sulphuric spark begins to dry out his damp treason and his moist dis-ease.

Bury the fiery man; entomb the one who seeks to be rid of the chaotic impurities. Let everything be burned away but the crystallized heart of his intent. Bury him deep, the yellowing man of Reason, so that he may be changed.