The stars will spin down their frozen honey on long ropes like candied spiders' webs: frozen, beaded crystals of ecstasis and insight. The vaporous tears of Celestina will fill the firmament like thick, black, boiling smoke of the ayahuascero's pipe. This is the infinite moment of trancendance, altitude and illumination that we seek to perpetuate. Hollow-eyed poets in cold Parisian attics; naked, tripping hippies dreaming in the golden San Francisco dawn; turbaned yogis at the lotus gate; Egyptian priestesses with wet thighs; a twenty-two year-old parking lot attendant in Sioux City, Iowa, a tattered copy of Les Chants du Maldoror in his threadbare coat-pocket: these and their kind are the communicators of desire and mastery, the drummers of the orgied dance at the center of the Universe's heart. This lineage of gnostic knowledge-holders is an immortal artery of the human heart, a Ganges of the illumined soul. This divine copulation of matter and energy, of flesh and plant and spirit, is the yolk of the of the world soul.