If we choose to enter together, we will surely find others who have come before, certain pilgrims, exiles, lovers, away for a moment or two from the psychopathic eye of a failing god, away for a stolen glimpse of whatever remains the decaying coliseum, basilica, mausoleum.
Somewhere in a clearing, it was like this always or almost always: a stream cut through granite and limestone to find a river, a spot hollowed out from the earth, a house made of antelope hide, a few shards of mica and quartz, an assemblage of bone.
Iconography so elusive, we scarcely notice our unconscious, ritual bondage to the merely specific and local begin to dissolve. Blood here. Blood and death here. All the old smells, the smoke smells. Saliva and sputum and sperm. Are you still here? Can you hear me? Are you coming along?