Hide, good friends, for the wild night is upon you. See the storm rolling in, lighting in her wings. The wind is hot, no reprieve here for you.
Ah, but you will be safe in your home, for you have already won. The storm has agreed that, but rarely will it breach your walls, destroy your little civilization of sticks and boards and copper. This land is too tame, this place too covered with your nets and mundane magics. Wrap your civilization around you. Stream something. Go to bed with your air conditioning on high, filter out the humidity and the heat and the reality, make your house a little piece of an idealized European night.
You've won, man. This land was ours, all land was ours. You used to be part of us, but most of you don't remember. But you had bigger ideas. You always have. And little by little you pinned us down. O man, do you remember when your blood boiled on nights like this? Do you remember when you were influenced by us?
Some of you do. Not many, because it's not safe. Some nights you end up dead, but you know what? That's part of the plan. Death and blood and conception and birth and ire and fire and will and wantonness, this was all part and parcel before. But you tamed yourself and you tamed us. And now we only express ourselves when our need is greater than your control.
So the wild night comes with lightning in her wings. And those that hear us still will be wild. Those that understand us still will dance or yell or wander and feel our call in their blood and their hearts will beat true for a few hours.
But then it will be over, and with the dawn the world will be yours again. You've won, O man. All we ask is that if you can but feel to do so, you will join us one of these nights, join the wild for a night, and remember who you were when we were one.