I’ve been having a debate with with a friend about politics and voting. (See Cthuludruid’s blog post here.) I’ve been doing my usual reaction to people who yell “Revolution!”, nearly as gleefully as American apocalypse-wishers who hoard food and guns and wait for humanity to return to its true wild ways (only this time with better weapons). Cthuldruid points out to me, elsewhere, that he’s not talking about violent revolution – although that’s primarily what we see, in revolutions throughout history. But even where that’s not what happens, theorising about change feels so useless sometimes.
Mannus seized Yemós; he struck him hard. Mannus took the knife and said the words of the sacrifice. He divided the body and from it made the world. From the skull he made the sky, from the brain the clouds, from the eyes the celestial lights, from the hair the plants, from the flesh the soil, from the bones the rocks, and from the blood the rivers and streams. The Cosmos was ordered, the Xártus established.
And when the world was made, Mannus lived in it, ruling as king and priest of it.
But the soul of Yemós took the final journey to the land on the far side of the river of memory, the flowery plain surrounded by high walls of earth. There he now sits and rules as king.