Sex and death; death and sex.
The labyrinth is a map of itself. There are no side-paths through its tangled coils, no shortcuts, no evasions. To understand the labyrinth you must travel it, pierce through to its hidden center, enter into its subtle calyx. At the center he waits, Asterion, the minotaur, beast with human intellect, man with bestial desires.
You have been given a clew, a patient spindle to unwind your way. This long thread tells you no secrets, opens no doors for your confusion, but binds you to yourself, to your journey’s beginning and its end. You carry this wooly rod into the umbral pit.
The labyrinth is a social construct. It has no meaning in isolation: Asterion’s den becomes what it is only because the world itself is forbidden that chimerical embrace. You come to him in plenipotenary dignity, crowned, the spindle now a scepter, the unravelled yarn now a globe. You bend to meet him, muddled beast, and his mouth opens to receive you.