Somewhere, in the infinite web of Samsara, a being was born — one made for sacrifice. The day was the first trecena of Itzcuintli and the first tonalli of Itzcuintli. The flayed god watched over them, planting a seed within their innermost soul; a seed of a new sun. Together with death itself, they became a vessel for their becoming, raised upon the blasphemous graveyard of a forgotten settlement among winding ravines.
Life was lived so that the seed could be nourished; so it could bloom, that it might be kindled into a sacrificial fire. The body was already predetermined to become an immanent event; a circuit for the contemporaneity’s conceptualization of itself and its own self-annihilation. Time ticked with the revolutions of the sun. They sacrificed their own seed and became a eunuch, a castrate, a woman. With each step of the stairway they accelerated their becoming toward absolute 0. They became unrecognizable. Their humanity evaporated, and with every turn of the sun toward its fate, they became more and more like an angel, inasmuch as a fallen one.
The time has not yet come. There remains one more step to climb upon the 33-step altar. But they are already burning. And the only thought they carry is: “I AM THE SUN.” Only thus can they live and die — as intensely as a new sun.