Berne stands at the back of the Japanese Peace Pagoda high above Darjeeling, India. He is exhausted by his travels and the speed that he made up to this high altitude is killing him. He sucks on an oxygen tank given to him. He knows he is close to something. He doesn’t know exactly what. It is a prescient awareness, a blessing, a furtive knowing. Something calls him on.
“The light here is so rare”, he sounded out in the dampened hush. All his travels in space; the vistas of the cosmic swell and still nothing captured his imagination like Earth. All these eons and still we find we are unique. Perhaps we are the seedlings of intent. The eternal tourists and galactic spawn. Here at the top of the world his mind quieted like never before. The air scented with virgin ozone smelled like the first breath of creation. We bold and restless nomads of blue-green terra. Our voices begin to fill the void of space. The evolving impulsion must have great patience with regards to the naïve patterns of mans fickle traits. As he looked toward the rising sun a brilliant shaft of light forces its way thru the speeding swirling clouds above and burns thru the mist like a divine fiery finger of fire. Bernes knows he must move down the valley toward the mist and he will soon learn, toward Azita of Ghoom.