So every day, you gather what you can find, and you carry it to the pile. The pile is a never ceasing fire, burning in a mile high chimney, errected in competitions among tribes. Its hard to ignore- all those walking towards the firestorm, carrying sacrifices- once the sunrise and sunset mass orgasm subsides.

Maybe you found coal, you have talent, you are worthy, you can feel the burning envy of the others. The one left to you, carries some brushes, the one right to you carries a struggling fat deer. Oh, how it will burn, oh the joys.

All of you have the mycelium behind your eyes- that spark never to cease. At the distance, some youths howl insults at the caravan, not strong enough to carry yet, dismissing the joys of the front row out of jealousy. They will find something, find their place, they will wake up to the joy, carrying some dehydrated, light husk to the pillar of awe. Even now they are hiding some candle or torch.

You slough towards the heat, some sweating the ash off, some collapsing, even in spasms- the eye on the inferno and its priests. Some are deprived off the joy, to deliver coolant, to maintain roads or shovell ashes. The joyless, you pity them- you hit them if they come between you and the pyre. Then the orange fills the world, joy is you, and you dance, forward, backward. Foam is on your mouth. Till you collapse from your body giving way. A Joyless carries you home, some lonely replaceable hole, in a well organized dessert, a empty cave in the anthill on a empty plain - where you, where you all sleep. For tomorrow, before dusk you will rise.

You will walk out into the inferno- telling yourself, that you are pure. One of the lucky few, to be burned away, for another day. You are the burning men. You always wanted this.