The wind charging through the empty chambers of the abandoned citadel raises little wisps of dust that rush about like ghosts. In a corner stands an ancient drum, whose echo rumbles through the voids.
A dog barks in the distance and a door slams shut.
A swastika is carved into a boulder.
A man in a goatskin steps out of the sandstorm with a curious smile. He unclenches his hand and a spinning top leaps across the ground.
A river flows uphill, beneath the black mountain.
A conch shell calls across the valley, rising and falling; the sound reverberates into infinity, shuddering the whole earth.
Caravans of thought stumble through the mountain passes, teetering on the precipice-edges, on tortuous tracks, suspended over uproarious chasms.
On the highest crag grows a single blue poppy.
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