But you can't con a whole universe forever, nor an entire planet. Not even a civilization of braindead punks. The gods, eternal like archetypes, vivid like horses and conscious like wise men, want their thrones back. The demon's time is up, the pendulum swings, pushing darkness into light. Reaching out to the gods with our human hands, frees us from the wheel of suffering and releases us into the endless rolling of joy. Because gods don't suck.
By the way, holy grails, those holy stones, are common in the yoruba cult. They conserve powers frequently harvested in rivers. I'll now sink back into the arms of Oshun, old man I am and have always been as a son of Obatalá, the wise (and the fool) on the hill ...
