• 107



    After staring at and studying the features of the rock with your fingers, the word Hanblecheyapi suddenly shimmers across its surface. Your pronunciation falls far short of the correct Lakota phonemes but it still has the same effect as if you had summoned a genie – another composite, this time a mix between the Sioux goddess of peace, Wóȟpe, and Rose Wilder Lane.

    I am the Fallen Meteor, the vision begins to speak, still part of the land you seek but separate.

    The rock turns a mysterious turquoise while smoke of the same color wafts from her mouth and into your nostrils.

    It is time for you to embark on your vision quest, dear one.

    “Vision quest?,” you ask, assuming in turn, but the smoke-that-knows gives you an answer before you can even finish the question.

    Your Hanblecheyapi begins as soon you purge what food was still in your stomach by gagging yourself with two fingers and begin to fast without any water or food for the next few days here in Wyoming. To survive, you go into a state of deep meditation/hibernation and the lack of nutrients forces your body and your brain to turn in on itself for sustenance. The inward movement contracts and contracts and contracts until infinitesimal regions are approached at which gluons are comparable in size to nuclear power plants.

    Eventually, at that point where time and space start to bend in on themselves, everything comes rushing in on top of your vision until…you’re on the other side of everything.


    Go to page 47.


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