This is your secret sacrifice, this is your magical rite; what is left, but to die, and rot, and let the holiest spiritual nourishment sprout out of your dead body? Now you are stiff, my loves, now you are cold and hard and dry, my children, you have followed the herds to the precipice, and cast your gold and pearls to the hogs and insects. Now take your staff, and break it; now throw diamonds and everything precious into the mud; leave everything behind you, take nothing with you, strip yourself naked, and let no cords bind you to this life. You shall wander forever in death completely naked, with nothing to protect you from spiritual malady: do not fear, my children, you don’t exist now, and you will not exist in death: you are a little yeast cast into the void of nothingness giving rise to being moment to moment: in death you will be a little yeast cast into the nothingness of death, and you will be better off, for you will not be deluded into thinking you are anything but a fleeting shadow creeping across a wall, or a tiny ripple disappearing from the surface of a pond. You live in the shadows now, but you believe you live solid like a rock in the sun; in death you will not believe any of these delusions, but come and go with the drifting of the wind, or a swirl of motes in the sunlight. You shall be like a sound in the night, here for a second, and gone, hardly even here at all.