Cold, desolate white mounds covering the hillside. Layers upon layers that pile and cut the landscape in lines. This brilliance and scale made purely to ingest this odorless smell, blinding by the light that reflects off Lake ShomaDa. Climbers sit atop shivering, looking across. Montana to the north, young Georgia to the south, the sun rising from the east, and stars to the west. Oldest of the terrain still wise in his years, remembering centuries past and seeing futures unload.
