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The lightning strikes. The two worlds embrace. The revolution, like love, comes in a thunderstorm. Lightning is the boundary shatterer. What was a boundary becomes ash, the territories pushed further from the point of impact. It negates the old myth of revelation from above. Ghosts pass through the violet trap doors that furrow the sky. In the violence between above and below, not from some transcendent realm, come these beings. Between life and death is laughter: lightning made human. Between madness and sanity is an unraveling: the thunderstorm. In the gap between the present and the future we have come to read the word "hope": clouds bulging over the black horizon. From hope, to the unraveling, to laughter. In the parched silence of the afterstrike, new worlds arise.