As Miriam and the Shekhinah danced and sang, the cosmos sang with them. Miriam saw more of herself in the shekhinah and realized she was impossibly ancient. Only her youthful spirit made her appear like a child. The power of God manifesting through her gave her the appearance of being forever young.  Day turned to night, and a new song danced through the garden. Miriam lost sight of the Shekhinah, wandering off to find the source of this new song.  An enticingly rich aroma of toasted spices perfumed the air, and the bass and beat of the music drove her heart to beat faster. Laughter and shouts of joy and pleasure drew her away from the wildness of the garden into a more manicured and curated patch filled with people whose faces were familiar but unknown. Their smiles eased her mind and spirit, distracting her from her unease from being surrounded by so many strangers. Everything here was beautiful, enticing, and whispered a promise she understood in her body she couldn’t put into words. Her pulse quickened. Her feet and her body moved to the rhythm of the new song.  She lost herself in the music. Forgetting herself in brief moments, delight flooded through her. She didn’t forget her body, only herself. In those moments, the sense of separation between her soul and her body disappeared, as did the illusion of separation between her and the world.  Miriam was one with herself and with the whole of creation. The lie of separation dissolved into the nothing from which it arose.  She wanted more.  From the crowd, a vivacious being who appeared perfect in every way danced toward her. Offering her a hand, Miriam followed this ideal of beauty deeper into the throng of dancers. The stranger's touch reverberated through her like delicate crystal, singing and ringing out in triumphant, ecstatic tones.  Miriam sank into pleasure, mistaking it for bliss and joined in the strangers dance until she was inseparable from it. She was the dance, and needed more of it. If she ever stopped moving, she would lose herself and she feared she might never find herself again.  Her muscles ached and her spirit cried out for relief, and for a moment she believed that if the music ever stopped or the dance ended, she would cease existing. After all, what was she without this dance, without this music?  Nothing. It was the best of her. The only part of her that was real, and she needed more. Thunder cracked.  A young man beat the foot of his staff into the ground, piercing the cosmos with another peel of thunder.  “Miriam,” the young man called out, “Beware the strange music that drew you from the path. It is the song of Ashmedai, the demon of lust who brings corruption into the world.”  “How?” Miriam asked. “I have found pleasure and community. I am no longer alone. How can this be bad?”  “Who are you with and why?” the young man waited to give her a moment to respond, then said, “the song of Ashmedai is alluring, calling many in with the promise of bliss, liberation, and an end to the illusion of isolation. Unfortunately, he replaces one illusion will another. His only gift is attachment, tying the mind, the heart, and the soul to the promise of a person, a place, or a thing, while denying a genuine connection from ever coming into being.”  “I do not understand,” Miriam said.  “Ashmedai’s gift of lust denies you connection or intimacy with a person, drawing you only to the brief pleasure they can bring you. He promises you bliss or ease of suffering, but gives you a substance which demands more and more from you, making you its servant more than a gateway to the bliss promised.  “Lust is the essentialization of pleasure through seeing only the utilitarian purpose of people, places, and thing, and the pure objectification of everything and everyone, so no actual connection or relationship can form.” Miriam blinked, and the illusion melted away.  Her partner and the other dancers revealed their true nature. They were all puppets on strings, controlled by the looming figure of Ashmedai towering over all of them pulling their strings. He didn’t control their actions, only pulling them in directions they didn’t want to go until the new direction become second nature and the strings no longer needed to be pulled.  The longer she beheld the scene playing out before her, the less she could tell the difference between Ashmedai and herself.  “Am I the demon?” Miriam asked, filled with terror.  “No,” the young man said, “Heaven, hell, all the angels and all the demons are within you. They do not originate within you, but they have no form, no substance until they find a home in the souls of the living. Waves gain their shape and form in combination with the winds that blow upon them and the depth of water they flow through. A tsunami is hard to sea in the depths of the ocean, but as it approaches the shore, it rises from the sea. It is the same with spirits. They are hard to see on their own, but more obvious as they interact with the living.”  Miriam turned her attention to the young man and realized he was the Archangel Raphael, the healing of God. In this moment of clarity, Ashmedai’s strings slipped from her and she rushed to the side of the archangel.  Raphael stabbed his staff into the earth again, and Ashmedai retreated.  The archangel pointed the way back to the path, and Miriam found her footing back on the way.