We are many, but one.
Our hands clutch tender journey-fragments, temporal puzzle pieces. Together, they are shards of a fragile destiny. When we are one -- when our rhythm rings out in single melody, hearts beating as clockwork, souls aligned -- we assemble the shards with ease, each one flowing into the next with casual effortlessness, bringing us ever-greater glories. We are glowing, gazing, dancing, cutting, splitting away from corporeal form, spirit unified, ascended.
We have exceptional triumphs. We bridge vast gulfs of understanding, unleash rapid-fire barrages of pure insight, resolve tumult and chaos with sublime clarity. These moments are nigh ubiquitous, yet each one steals our voices and molds them into more, shapes our breath into conjoined revelry, shrill exultation. Victory is anything but quiet.
Not so when we are many. When we are many -- when our tempos collapse in cacophonous dissonance, eyes flickering under the shadow of doubt, spirits disjoint -- the pieces in our hands contort into hieroglyphs beyond human understanding, glowing fragments writhing under the weight of their own incomprehensibility, amphigory defined. We are fading, failing, stumbling, tearing, relapsing into a more primitive existence, our spirits broken, denied.
Do we turn to the Stars for salvation? Do we call upon those capricious flecks of light -- so precious, so fleeting -- to save us from ourselves? Or do we press on in darkness, fueled by bated impulse, and risk damnation at hubris' hands? Whichever we choose, we press on, for the promise of grandeur itches in our minds, gnawing at us, corroding our sensibilities, driving us to madness. Perhaps now, we think again. Perhaps this time.
