In your hole, you stay put up, silent. Hollow endemic sounds approach with shapes you sense in their aerial reverberations. Some prancing like the man-eaters of dense Kumayun, some steep like thousand-year aches of avalanches. Some, even still the ululations of sea-tectonics. Some burst fury, some, arrested in their motion - frozen, dank, doomed. And somewhere stop at multiple thresholds. I wish I was fabricating some fantastic sketches.The skies our million wargrounds of hiss and doom. I know not the deep screeches, shrieks, shouts which people partake pleasure from. How easily men submit to the dance of the aural dark. The sheer impassivity of nil recurring. What orgasmic feral might they seem to conquer in ebullience. What leaves behind, but dust and echoes.