This is a time of cross-pollinization, a time of mixing, a blending-time, a clashing time, a time when wind lifts up blossoms and semen and casts it headlong across the great atmospheres of the world's skies down into fertile, disturbed plains. This is one of those times when folk mix, when exotic plants travel thousands of miles in gulf streams, when birds drop droppings full of seed, when new landscapes emerge, when mountains fall and valleys raise. This is a time when mad monks pack books on donkeys' rumps and backpath into the winding mountains of mist, bringing strange collections to odd tribes. Coca-cola lives in the Himalayas, Dickens' slum armies march to black and white television sets in Mongolia and Zaire and Guatemala and Serbia, and Spengler's eddies of tribes swirling and spiralling in the foam of people, bubbling and bursting out new wyrds that grow into great new stocks of juxtaposed folk breeding unknown, multiple nations of future's dreamings. This is a time of chaos, a perilous time of great contingencies and opportunities, a postmodern time of collage and dada whose strong loins pump out surreal babies of beauty and surprise. This is a time when armies march and no one knows why. The globe spins, and the dice roll out like no one's tomorrow. Where the roulette stops, no one is certain, but nations will be changed, and the landscape reconfigured, scrambled eggs, and new folk for all to see rising up out of the waters after yesterday's burnings.