The strangers came, and they were not like us.
Something else, but wearing the skins of men, the eyes of men, their hands.
We took to collecting the sound of them in our flesh, the aorisms of power, without substance, yet entirely substance; an unexplored integrity of sound.
In these waveforms of kelestic symmetry, we felt the remote passing into the definite.

We saw the wings of change from within the ichor of their sound; a thick smoke, sweet upon the tongue, curling into unimagined shapes that suggested surrender, ecstasy, pain, renewal.

We learned the names of these strangers, the ancient names of the Sumerland; in this place, on this Earth of now reality, the names are different, but the old cadences can still be uttered, chanted; they will still vitalise the call.

We stand together in the wildest places of the Earth, and form a forest of hands against the black sky, stretching up, reaching for what is ours to take yet never to attain.

Our bodies begin to pulsate to a subliminal rhythm and we feel the imminence of contained energy, soon to be released. We dilate our throats to air and resonate the ancient names.

We convoke the Nephilim, and they come to us, strangers with the eyes of men.


An extract from the testimony of the temple scribe Ishur Ninku,
"The Coming Of The Watchers", Mesopotamia, Circa 4000 BC