The ancient melodies must have been born from such a precipice. Here on top of the world, I fall out my own eyes into the vast landscape below. There is nothing quite like it but music; nothing that I know of, anyway. It takes you out of yourself and washes you. You wake up as if from a dream.
I have no photograph to share, though I doubt such a device as a camera would suffice. Only a portion could be brought back, I think.
There is a temple, I call it a temple at least; a temple or a palace or a prison. It’s all one. It sits above the delta of a great river, the easy flow of whose waters are unnamed in any western tongue, but a literal translation of what the rivermen call their home is indeed, home, sometimes mother, and even father.
This temple is forbidden, at least so I gathered when I asked to visit it. They used strange words that my English speaking guides refused to translate. Its tallest, central tower is windowed by four large apertures each set toward a cardinal. It stands like an inverted lighthouse, casting shadows down into the valley.
I think I will die up here. You see, I had my binoculars. I stole a glance up into that tower. I saw what dark thing was hidden there, a dreadful, living idol, formless like a slithering bunch of maggots. I am glad that I will not live long. I will not last the night, certainly. I saw it, and saw that it saw me. I shall not see another day.
It is beautiful here, gazing down into the valley. The sun his hanging low, and the world is covered in gold.
Tale Told 