“I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then?” — James Joyce, Ulysses
The Mountains. Everywhere they towered around us. Like the tectonic shifts that had formed them, the collision of two different, potentially faulty systems of romance. As Barthes noted, you see a banalising characteristic in the other, something that doesn’t jell with your image of them and hear an enormous rumbling as if from another world. At first these quakes rumbled incessantly in the distance. Ambivalence, rootlessness itself took root. For a time we simply put up with the shaking. Eventually we ourselves were struck and everything crumbled around us. I fell into that same ravine we once stared into so peacefully, up there, in the mountains. A hell-mouth, a tunnel to a place reserved for those doomed to silence, a place for the voiceless. Thereafter I was embraced by the subterranean.