I wanted to begin.

Here it was, in the beginning I was. Those parts of my self that wrote words, I was that part of my self that had thoughts. Eventually, they found themselves, as we all do, motionless in the heat of the sun staring down our backs. Eventually, I found myself: backless to the night, offering postings and pictures of selves I have yet to make sense of. I made them for orchids and other flowers, for their soft uneyes to draw me with. Arching to the morning, they followed the day from me, staring back into dusk as it became blackness and twinkled. I can see that up here. Up here there are less lights, and I can see the stars. I put this stuff up, against the fullness of the infinte. Things For people, with eyes.

Shames Mountain Backcountry, 2012. Charles Piquette photo. Winter creates beings called cornices who are sculpted by the weather and who die each spring. There is a loveliness to them up here, a terrible lovelieness, and I approach them like I would a sleeping giant, careful so as to not disturb it’s violent slumber. Here the rocks are blacker than usual, they remind me of crystals.

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