Across time, proto-Genesis screams. He screams in horror, he screams in disgust. In warning. Across time, that terrified man, eternally youthful. As long as the recording exists. That record of a sliver that was once called magick. We listen now, sitting or standing. Sometimes driving a car or a truck or even a bus full of tired musicians, or children, or elderly gamblers, occasionally even alone. The cassette deck, or the CD player, or the MP3 player, or possibly even the radio—analog or digital—is the channel. The trees continue their quiet communications in the hills around us, through the air we call dirt, or earth. It's not for us to say, at least not yet. Give us time, though. We have consistently gotten there eventually. Tiny, ant-like population untying our own rootball. Undoing what it has taken the globe hundreds of centuries to create. And all for ourselves. But for now, on this sunny afternoon, in this sunny room, windows opened to comfortable vent sizes, man-made carpet beneath my soles and toes, sunlight modulated by machine-painted and -produced aluminum blinds, monitors going full-blast, music from the plastic composite and paper and circuitry of the desktop computer speakers, across time proto-Genesis screams. He screams out from the first jagged ridge of the 1980s. He screams a warning, a reminder: "Subhuman! Subhuman!"