As we stand on the precipice, our magicks must become wild once more. They must transform to fit the age, as they ever have. We must transform if we are to fight back against the injustices Capitalism forces on nature and on ourselves. Our magicks must become that of dirt, blood and bone.

As I await my ride into work, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, imagining how easy it would be to just hide myself away from the world of man and stay in this, what feels like the real world, the one that makes sense. But alas, the moment must come to an end and I must head out to work, into the world of mindless chatter, gossip, of money and bills and all of the other worries and vexations that come with this life, But still, even in the most stressful moments I can close my eyes and breathe deeply, remembering the scent of the early morning garden, the feel of it. More and more I find myself doing this for the world most think of as the real world is dull and lacking, full of hypocrisy that heavies the heart and deadens the soul.