The flooded earth must subside. Determined to flow in some singular direction instead of roiling itself into madness. And down inside all of this water, voices begin to be heard, calling us to fest. Not the voices of birth, but the voices of death in reverse. Struggling out of the blackness, still almost asleep. The song of the old grey rainbeard, joined in by rusty metal sighs from infants the size of whales. Almost falling awake.