Eventually the tricks will get so big that failure will mean death. And great pros will ebb and flow like the moonlit tides of a majestic and far away land. Some thrown aside like entrails to dogs. Few conquering some, but not all. The snow will run red with the blood of failures. Until a new age is marked by the birth of an unlikely and humble competitor. Ascending from a line of gapers whose lives were not wrought of the turbulent hills of Terrain park. He will arise with twin tips that glow like the sun and butter like astroglide. He will sunder the walls of hindrance with earth wrenching afterbang and vulgar displays of gorilla steeze. He will render progression upon our sport the likes of which mortal men cannot fathom.
The prophecy has been spoken