I was camped out on the steppe, trying to tame wild horses. I had recently invented both the saddle and the rope. You were busy building a city where brother killed brother. I tried to reach you via smoke signals. Back then, you lived at the top of a very tall tower, only accessible via a complicated latticework of pulleys and scaffolding. I tamed the world’s first horse. I named the horse after you. Clouds were always brewing on the horizon. “Storm’s coming,” said a rooster, somewhere. But nobody really knew what that meant yet.