It's obscured by necessity, but it's there, small and overtired, trembling in its new arrangement, cold and weary of the constant need for awareness of walking - if just one limb skids, the balance of climbing is gone, and descent becomes a confusion of curses, not all of them fully understood. It's a waiting, lost in the movement; it's half hope, half a knowledge that the meeting it anticipates shouldn't happen, that there shouldn't be a meeting here at all... There's not exactly ice and snow here, but it helps if one imagines that there is, and that the hill he climbs (he's not, of course, climbing a hill) is glassy; it also helps if you imagine that a wooden structure, roughly fashioned for a murder of some sort, to imagine that this structure's carried on his back - try to see a figure, bent beneath the weight of wood it drags, walking down a path that's lined with very distant jeers and insults, walking upwards, maybe crawling on all fours towards a line of voices he detests, but knows are destined to affect this pain. He's slow, he's left to climb, left to the cold thoughts he accepts (and yet denies the value of). He is unsure, unsteady, tired, and very empty - he has no reason for this ascent, only the knowledge that he needs the distance that the journey can afford. I am not convinced that this journey affords distance; there is a set smile seen sometimes when this or that one sees a joke I've missed. I see that smile now, see it in the black hardness, in the properties of the climb he's making. I see it in lakes and the meanderings of hawks (do you see it in me? I feel the first stirrings at the corners of the mouth). Have you seen the meanderings of hawks?
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