Never will I forget the three mile procession in silence to the Temple; in reverence and tears with my sister by my side. Our arms outstretched before us displaying our most sacred offerings. For the sacred dust to bless them with every speck that swirled around and kissed them. For every whip of wind that cut through our sheers to cleanse. For the goddesses and gods to witness our bareness; our naked desires, childlike hopes and sacrifices for the fire. Our ritual was no act. And only was it art as we were walking portraits of our alchemical magic; free-floating forms of the spells that we'd bleed and sweat over. As divinely guided, those offerings would be buried as seeds beneath the center altar. Springing a tree of massive love vibration, roots spread out wide throughout the Playa. Magic would it be. Fueled by the pyre.