I am going through pale darkness and whirlwind and a dog howling near or in my head, a Baskervill. Through the fog, the structures of emptiness, accents, contrasts fall on me. Stones, Sea of Stones, Girl’s and Male’s Stones, rocky Tors of ancient Mesozoic and Tertiary times, plenty of confusion, high and wide. A young shepherdess died nearby. I am alone, wandering, wetting, freezing, flying infinity or infinity flying around me.
I’m getting smaller. I walk through a tunnel of inclining spruce trees and kneels, the path and stairs that I climb are paved with thousands of flats of pebble stone. I sit on the edge of the tundra, an island over the torn shreds of clouds, grazing meadows in the distance, and waterlogged peat bogs around me. Age and infinity sit on me, I have to go, quickly, quickly from here before it’s too late … I have lichens and lashes at my heels, gray stones so green, so red, I wade and fall.
So majestic, so beautiful, so alien, harsh, deaf and full of magic.