Sun, jealous at his lover Moon’s newfound dalliance with Earth, took up a great obsidian knife and stabbed her. She was swollen with eggs, and they spilled forth upon Earth. The eggs were every thing that runs upon Earth, swims within Earth, soars above earth.

Moon, her energy spent, grew silent and cold. Earth, mourning his love, cared for her children in the distant way of a stepfather. Sun grew hot with jealousy but respected Moon and her children and allowed her half the sky.

But the time will soon come, children, when Moon will reawaken, when Earth will woo her once more, when Sun will grow jealous anew. The obsidian blade that is the night remains, and Moon has once again grown full of new children.

When Sun slices her again, what will become of her old children when the new spill down upon us?

They may brefriend us.

They may devour us.

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