6.2.99

I don't like writing mere chronological accounts. When I re-read something I've written like that I think it sounds bland and not nearly as interesting as the real thing - it lacks the colors of my experience: Silence but for the sound of my ears aching. Vapor that abandons me for the massive migration above. A jagged edge of rock - perfectly jagged - sawing off a slice of mountain. Brilliant orange lichen blemishing every face. We joked about the weaponry dangling and clanking from my pack. Crampons they were, that I wore for only a little while. Then they became a liability, a hazard, a cowbell. Etc.

future past index