Long and narrow, but not uniform. A smell without memory, and a shape ancient, even primeval. Then the bigger ones, which recall more clearly where these objects came from, the objects I am about to burn. No, there is no ritual here. When primitive man first beheld the miracle (though he did not yet know the idea of god or of divine intervention) and was awed, his immediate reaction would have been to repeat it. You strike the match and at once the smell of gunpowder recalls everything that most people of war want to forget. The first smoke is confusion and disorder. But the structure of the rocking begins to take shape, and slowly the dance begins too. They dance in an embrace, one leaping over the other; they grow angry and break apart, until they make peace and close in around. The confusion becomes coordination and sound, as if you were stepping on human bones in a Christian catacomb lit by torches. You turn your head away, but now the warmth wants you and circles around you. You resist no longer and turn to lose yourself in the frenzied dance. Now you face the patterns, and without meaning to you can predict the next move. The first thought might have been: what else can one do, once warmed and lit? Or perhaps, when the movements become predictable, you turn your head to all those strange shapes on the surfaces of the room. Shapes like the voices of actors (like the voices of the chorus in an ancient tragedy) speaking of the same passion, but at different intensities. The warmth reminds you again that you too are a body with a surface, yet with bottomless depth, as the absorption sends small shivers through you.

You fall asleep and forget yourself.

As the warmth fades, you slowly open your eyes and see shades of orange showing through the cracks, like the skin of a hand worn out by years in the fields, or simply ploughed mercilessly by time. For a moment you panic; you don't want the miracle to end, and you set to work, adding more matter and pushing, and you break up the cracks. You hope, and the hope becomes a first rocking, after the first confusion. And then, once more, the coordinated dance and the recognition of the choral patterns. And finally, once more, the embrace of the warmth. You feel you have turned time back, that you have been given the chance to repeat time, and you settle into ease as you gaze idly at the dance and the shapes on the surfaces. You throw all your thoughts into the dance, and as they are atoned for, you feel lighter, but empty and blackened. You look at the pile and get up to bring a few more. The warmth bids you farewell and you are showered with countless needles, tiny, tiny but countless, trying to get in through the pores of your skin. You resist, but the cold always gets in. You move quickly and decisively, because that way you feel you have not been fooled. You come back and set them down beside you, with a joyful certainty that once again you will win and turn time back. As long as you keep turning time back, the needles will stay away. The rocking invites you back, and you go on throwing all your thoughts in there, paranoid or reasonable; you go on hearing the broken bones under your feet, and feeling so, so alone.

C.L. (Primitive man, before he became aware of or met other groups)