The Prophet Speaks

Filled with the drunkeness of the Wine of Spirit, the Prophet was checking his robes, ripping out every second thread to find the pattern woven.

“Ain’t nothing gonna harm me!” sayeth Him “You cannot kill what does not believe in death. Rip off my arm and it shall grow back; Kill me and you shall give birth to me a hundred times.”

He plucked a thread from his sleeve and his robe fell to pieces.

“So to is the pants of fate; a million threads make one and only one can undo all and so one becomes one million possibilities anew.”

Naked and giggling the Prophet ran through the streets, shouting in Divine Stupor,

“Loose thy threads and become elastic possibility! Thou art the thread and the weave and the weave is made of the thread!”