Oliver Pockets
04-29-2010, 04:23 PM
Beauty is driven by the wind.
Isolation overwhelmed me as I walked the perfect road. It was a strait line, flawless in is angles, leading strait through the serrated mountains. A notch had been cut out of the cordillera, square with the road, it was something made by the gods, unmatched in perfection, that the world would not let natural man achieve. Through the open hall of the massif I walked. The footprints I left in the dust lead strait through the mountain, deviating only occasionally to dodge the sun, the source of the burning heat, that stood directly above the notch cut into the mountain.
Once delivered from the womb of the rock, the road lead on, strait, without a flaw in its line. Down, down it went, through the grey grass, through the boulders, reminders of the mountain. At times I would leave the road, the sight of a tree, the hope of water, a protected place to sleep. Once I saw a tall montholic structure, shaped like an obelisk, it stood lean and haggard against the backdrop of the grey sky beyond.
Nothing, nothing was alive, the plain was filled with monotonous grey grass, and the occasional inhospitable tree. The road itself was beginning to look banausic in structure, the awe of its perfection was leaving me, and the awfulness of this emptiness was beginning to fill my thoughts.
The boy had no teeth, he sang in the streets of a city called Solitude.
--Fragment discovered among the old records, hidden in the depths of The Last Library.--
input is highly appreciated
Isolation overwhelmed me as I walked the perfect road. It was a strait line, flawless in is angles, leading strait through the serrated mountains. A notch had been cut out of the cordillera, square with the road, it was something made by the gods, unmatched in perfection, that the world would not let natural man achieve. Through the open hall of the massif I walked. The footprints I left in the dust lead strait through the mountain, deviating only occasionally to dodge the sun, the source of the burning heat, that stood directly above the notch cut into the mountain.
Once delivered from the womb of the rock, the road lead on, strait, without a flaw in its line. Down, down it went, through the grey grass, through the boulders, reminders of the mountain. At times I would leave the road, the sight of a tree, the hope of water, a protected place to sleep. Once I saw a tall montholic structure, shaped like an obelisk, it stood lean and haggard against the backdrop of the grey sky beyond.
Nothing, nothing was alive, the plain was filled with monotonous grey grass, and the occasional inhospitable tree. The road itself was beginning to look banausic in structure, the awe of its perfection was leaving me, and the awfulness of this emptiness was beginning to fill my thoughts.
The boy had no teeth, he sang in the streets of a city called Solitude.
--Fragment discovered among the old records, hidden in the depths of The Last Library.--
input is highly appreciated