They call me God-Killer.

In the mountains of the pale sun, where the moons cleave the rocks in twain, flowing avalanche of shale and stone down into the fields, between the valleys of the purple sage, I rode there. Through the canal which dove through the canyon where the great old ones carved their marks, and in the desert of a ruined civilization, that is where I left the mark.

I found each one, there in their respite, amid the nature they controlled. I slayed each one, with sword, with stone, with club, with arrow, and with bare hands. The blood of the divine runs over my palms, like a water from a spring. I and I alone have done this, and now there is no one to answer for.

The land once sheltered the muskrat, the ox, the bird, the people, protected them from their chaos. The water fell, and soaked the farmland. The trees provided every kind of nourishment from fruit to leaves, to the animals that ate them, and in turn those who ate others. Now all that is gone, the tapestry is unbinding.