I press the sole of my foot against a smooth, layered stone that is faded black and acute to the slope of the path. It is smooth like the raging river far, far below, but its colour is off. Ahead - weeds, high as my chin choke thin, bent, erratically swaying blades of grass. Pale insects form merging and dispersing clouds, their bright blood pulsing and leaving trails like temporary maps in the air leading nowhere. I watch fascinated through twilight. I am lost. Tettigonias chirp in a quick six eight.