Raw, almost untouched. Unsalted, not frozen or marinated, but straight from the fishing hook that is waiting to catch you from a processed lake, designed to spit you out as a theatrical trickster, a zombie of society.
A doomed sinner of the modern world. You, who denied the goodness of the lord. Raw meat, straight from the slaughter, you sell yourself to a training camp.
You turn into a sponge, soaking in molecules of brain activity. Your flesh drenched in history. Cooking away your bloody juices takes a lifetime; marinating, another lifetime. As dooming as can get, as succulent and sadistically sweet.
Then, the life of the ego, a past verdict and forgiven. Now, the footsteps the universe carves bellow you, forth you, splaying out, in vessels of unknown human bonds. You, a bearer of drama-technology, now an open ship; You are sailing with neophytes of movement ichnology.