Life is fickle and singular. It stretches out taught and imagined, taught and forgotten. Homes are rooms with dark corners, stagnant gateways to worlds within worlds. Tones are hummed and chants are spectred, we sit at the table, our hands laid flat on the ancient surface, as we recite the ten thousand names and sing the lines of life. To breathe in the daylight, to breathe out the night, to calm the storms of chance and encounter, to stretch the life of momentum and exhilarance, these are the moments of judgement amidst the chaos of random screams and shouts. But we sit at the table, our hands calmly laid flat on the ancient surface, as we recite the seventy songs of the sun, the eight books of knowing. There are challenges and fluctuations in the great dance, the steps that guide the cosmos as it veers and gyrates. There are no centres, there are no wheels of comfort, all is chance and abandon. The clockwork universe has long been forgotten, replaced by the twists of a soul, the steps of the forbidden. So we sit at the table, our hands laid flat on the ancient surface, as we recite the ten trillion lamentations and the one book of lies.