Sacrifice comes at an unusual spiritual cost, don’t it? Walk that sheep up to the mount “Under the Clouded Sky.” Sweat out all fear and terror and Micromelancolie. The crying effect comes in shouts and howls rather than tears, and drinking from the creek is less purifying than how it should feel. Hydration sets in and piss clears, as the sheep urinates beside you. The sheathed knife digs into your side, and a bruise has to have formed by way of black-and-blue pain ‘long your hip and waist. As the sheep eats grass before it, your mind rages in heavy confusion between your innocence and its innocence. Marching on through the woodland hills now, closer, yet far from the top, screams in the distant plane fill your ears, and you continue to forge on through the pathless terrain. The bell around the sheep’s neck rings out, and you’ve arrived at the bloodied and chipped slab of stone built for Quiet Listening.
Hitting the sheep turns it completely around, and it hind-kicks three of your front teeth from your skull and bolts back down the mount. Running and jumping, grabbing at its bloodied hind legs, your hands slip from the wet fur, and you’re getting up, as the sheep runs a few more feet of distance from you. Then the sheep disappears as you wipe your brow. Closer to where it left your vision, you see a cliff, assume exactly what happened, and the sheep is burst open below you, half gone, fallen into the abyss. But it won’t work without a carcass. Climbing down proves to be easy; the sheep weighs obviously less than before, and slinging it over your shoulder, onto the clifftop, you bend in a way that unsheathes your knife and punctures your gut, spilling out waves of blood after removing the knife. Forgetting the sheep, you get back to the sacrifice slab, and look at the rest of your life. You then place your knife back into the wound, tare it straight across your gut, and spill out everything you feared to see in something else.
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