How many times have I written platitudes, bare on the page, stark as morning?
Talking without waiting for an answer, not even rhetorical, barely recognising that air carries sound, not even uttering it into the world. Writing a mute dispatch to a frontier unimaginable. The rider will never arrive, instead will only trapse through endless vales and woodlands. Pitching across rivers, setting camp on exposed hillsides, traversing cuts and inclines, stumbling over scree and fieldmarsh, bound in clothes and ambition.
There be monsters here too, silences of judgement, horrible faltering depths that mark the distance between mathematics and narrative, between what can be measured and what appears. Riders are lost to infinite snowstorms, driven insane by spiralling mountain paths, accepting exhaustion without progress. Another one lost to the bog, remains slowly settling beneath the reeds.