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We are PROTOMORPHIC & Grim Singmuf. (Altars Of Sand) They stacked their altars grain by grain and meditated as the wind carried each particle away. They migrated to a new spot every day, following the fungus that came with the rain. Consumed and proclaimed it was great for their brain, while others called them insane and gazed with disdain. Those that joined them were never the same, it's true they have changed. They speak in rhyme over noise, rhythmic and strange. Priestess and priest, as they are named, carry a torch, scorched by a flame you can not exhaust simple and plain. Ignited by the Word made manifest. The multi-verse is to blame, if you got a finger you want to aim. Most of ya'll are blind to divinity, I would expect nothing less. These altars stay blessed, carried north, east, south, and west. No time for rest, we gotta keep moving. I can feel you're stressed, but we gotta keep Groovin. Let me intervene, my third eye seen what's ahead, grab your torch, time to migrate my friend...