He sits where the old man once stood. The stars dim. The moon slouches toward the ocean. The blue massif fades away. The night is full.
What ghost have you created to fight?
What end have you created to distract?
What path have you created to walk?
Who is the rock who is the mountain who is the one?
One that could be erected is no one. World that could be erected is no world. Love that could be erected is no love.
What word what world what want?
Your body is the gate. Your world is the fire. And you are the tree.
Waves of red orange and gold gather on the horizon. As the sun rises light scatters across the blue massif and the woods. The night peels back. The sun lumbers up the peach flushed sky. It disappears behind the blue massif and the light passes through it, causing it to glow. It crests the massif and stands a golden disk a moment above it before continuing up into a sky changing once more.
He stands up and looks across the valley that lies beneath him and the drifting clouds hovering over the gaunt white trees that fill the hills on each side and the silver river that separates the valley from the hard empty plain that ends at the blue massif, veiled now by grey clouds.
He turns away as the sun passes behind the spreading snow cloud and rolls up his sleeping bag and he begins to climb down the mountain.
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