Let me tell you why you have a myth of a young god who dies and will return – I could name you ten, twenty of them. Adonis. Osiris. Tammuz. Baldur. Jesus. There they are, embossed in stone, entombed. Osiris will reassemble himself (but Orpheus’ severed head remains severed, and his lips sing about it). Down in the dark under the earth—away down deep, away from eyes & lungs—the stars are being born. There they’ll flare and die, in the nebula, a star’s nursery. The god who is born and dies is like the meteor that flares in the desert and disappears, like the imploding sun itself. To be born, he informs us, cannot be borne. He shucks his life like the hull of a seed. Then he returns to us, sucking his fingers and licking his lips.