He said. If you are inclined and the shadows from the buildings are not too cold and long. Stretch. Be aware of the present situation but do not dwell on intentions. When we conceived of the rituals, he said, we did not anticipate the gross partitions, or the gradual shift in attention. We must adjust. Pass quietly. If you are seen you will evaporate, being nothing but more mist in the fog we struggle within. Solidify. When the time comes you will become aware of the transitional mantra, it will ring in your ears and evict from your lungs in a thunderous clap. He dipped the brush into the pot again, preparing another stroke. Be ready, he said, for a collision. Create in yourself a map of imaginary worlds, an entire universe if necessary. Surrender. There is no recourse or commandments. There is no justification or solution. there are no allies but everyone is your friend. Cages are built slowly, he said, raising the broad ink filled brush. And you must endeavor to navigate the visceral substance, you must collect the rubble and dance in a way that instills an invisible compulsion. He brought the brush down in a mighty and confident arc, erasing everything he'd done.