I want to go into the desert with you, wander until every direction looks like the one we came from, wavy and impossible. And still, I want us to stumble ahead, going insane with the heat, our water cans as empty as a prophecy withheld from heathens. I will welcome the grit of the sand on my teeth. The dust in my nostrils, in my eyes and ears, will be a sign, not of our vulnerability, but of the insensitivity, the blindness and deafness of the ones we leave behind. And we will continue, long after a person not blessed will have died, to a miraculous and alien landscape, a place of red lakes and stone arches, of heat rising in ribbons and stars as crisp and clear as the whispers of an angel. The place will be marked by the skull of a bison, and buried beneath, we will discover a gift, the provisions of travellers before us, of unbelievers. So it is written.
We will build an altar, raise monoliths, and lift our voices up with the smoke of burning incense, our offerings. We will collapse from prayer shaking and rambling. We will chase and be chased. I want our fire always burning. We will learn reflexes faster than the devil’s—faith can move a hand faster than a scorpion can stab it. Let us to sing until we lose our voices. Let our words be written in sand and let the wind erase them. Let our words be heard in air and let the wind blow them away. Let our memories be formed in neurons and let the peyote confuse them, the ecstasy of belief destroy them. The chosen have no need of the past or of the future, the instant is the infinite.
We will not understand the source of the water, but it will come. Sulphurous yet drinkable, it will rise bubbling. We must drill where this snake has, in its sacrifice, indicated. We must set spikes. Seagulls will come and dive onto them. They will not know what compels them, but they will feed us. And yes, the authorities will look for us, they will hunt us in their helicopters and their hovercrafts, but they will never find us. Yet they will continue the search—they must. For we are fugitives, guilty on every count. Our visions are not legal.