Rules will not constrain an honest refrain from the brain. Stories can be told on an instinct, from a soundscape or on a pheromone cloud. Time, like story-telling, is not linear but we perceive It to be.
This story was told before: it started somewhere near the middle, after Soil was fashioned with a soul and Sent off to dance for [insert Deity here]’s Sake; soaked in sake and its’ insobriety – rules be damned, it would meet its’ Maker’s mark and map adulthood into its newborn form.
Soil was spilt, split, spliced from the earth; it was Fashioned as an In-between Thing, form and function and a something intangible, consciousness beyond impulse action. As unlike any other animal, Soil could change its mind and it sat there conjoined in two voices and named things, copulating and perfect.
We were all in the soup together; and traveled space together before then, carbon a billion years before completely isolated, now look at us; mingled and mated and sourced at some lighting strikes in an atmosphere ancient and poison to life as it exists today. And in the darkness [insert Deity here] Toiled and took Form, and Shaped the world with Physics and lightening strikes to Direct evolution into something More, Sacred yet Insignificant in the vast Scheme of things.