Senses
A man is walking along a dirt path. There's tall grass on either side, swaying in the wind like undulating bodies, momentarily revealing curious glimpses of the surrounding landscape. A bucolic valley, an endless meadow, abounding hills, towering mountains, their peaks and ridges appearing in different confounding iridescent shades of emerald and azure, and mauve and crimson, and every unknown color in between. A massive delta penetrating the earth, jagged yellow-white cliffs, a riverbed, two in fact, a confluence of streams. The man can feel the cool air against his face, the waning warmth of the sun, he can feel the presence of shadows as they migrate ominously across the field like drifting clouds before a storm, the ever-approaching storm. The grasses whipping against his open palms, their soft sting. He can measure the distance of the limestone escarpment in his mind, its vertiginous depths. One false step, he thinks to himself as he continues forward. He can hear the rushing waters, the clattering stones, he can feel their smooth cold touch in his hands, their rejuvenating presence, he can feel the earth rumbling beneath him, a train in the distance (or so he thinks), fast approaching - whatever it is, it's near, it's growing nearer - the grind of metal against metal, stone against stone, the grinding of history echoing between the bare hills, amongst the ancient ruins protruding from the earth, throughout the karstic subterranean, between the dry blades of grass, like the copper strings of an instrument that continue to vibrate long after a note has been struck - how long will it last - amongst the trembling leaves, amongst the flower pedals, the insects, amongst each infinitesimal detail, down to a single pebble, a single grain of sand, the erosive product of time. He can make out the sound of bells, their hollow clinking and clanging, as if a herd of goats is just on the other side of one of the hills, but which one. The noise grows fainter, slowly receding into the distance. Where are they headed, he thinks to himself. Where am I headed? He can feel his thoughts on his tongue, on the tips of his fingers, his lips moving ever so slightly as if reciting an incantation, his eyelids fluttering in unison. The sensations engulf him, they crash over him, one after the other, and then all together, like a hot wave of fear, like a delicately constructed mosaic. An image begins to form in his head (if it hasn’t already).