For me, the water dripping from the rocks after a morning mist has risen over the ridge, warmed by the Sun as he awakens Earth with a radiated roar, feels like drugs to the head every time I crawl and lick around. I feel it first in the back of my throat, the breath of gods gathering in my lungs. My eyes will not open to profane this moment. My tongues goes numb with the deep coldness of the granite from which I cannot peel away. Not yet. Not until my legs fill with blood-fire. Not until I can summit the Throne of the Old One and knock to see if I might borrow a cup of sugar to bake a cake for the celebration of the crumbling of consensual reality.
But no one will come.