The ravine was long, narrow, like the mountain had cupped her palms between her knees. The sides of the niche, that he remembered verdant and treacherous with moss, were wan and rotting in a bath of gloom. The wreath of forest delineating the precipice was slumped in retirement. All the bothies on the walls were sagging into fuliginous sediment, the mulch of civilization in decay.
He looked up from the lap of the cloh at the loft of the night, incubative, and felt smothered by the cosmos; as if sunk to the very floor of an ocean as deep as the gulf between stars. His weight drained and pooled in his feet, his tail of gravity listed; ahead rolled below.
The bed of the gulch became an escarpment, its jambs prostrate, and his view toppled to survey his altitude from the horizon. There guttered the tumid sun, like a chthonic inferno, sucking him down its desiccated throat.
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