In the mountains is where endorphin’s canary of the noumenon awakes. I’m afraid, aesthetically, if it’s bluebird and spindrift illumines off the ridge crest. Horrifically, if lenticulars loom and the way is lost. Despite all, the names of things are burnt away. The busy weavings of people are scored. Convention, stigma, and language. You are not there. There is only me. And on the spiritless face of terrain, the scents of lovers, and inner children begin whaling. Whatever unresolved endgame adjourned in the valley finally tips my King off-court. Black seconds unresolved, and those yet to pass, make themselves known, and not with a whisper.