When we walked on the shards on an icy dawn and became a species who'd heard the howl of The Siren's enchanting song, in "The Well" of a Paleolithic cave Orpheus stood slant-wise, a bird for his head, a bird on a pole, wounded bison moaning nearby. He, dancer in the abyss, spirit, ever to be born, Magic bird and unhallowed fruit cruelly saved. Anthropos calculating the disaster of our micro-managed destiny: Hello. Can you hear me? Can you see me? Can you be me?