It is made of stone. This world. Made of stone. Wood. It smells like earth. Dirt. Sweat. But it is lying. These are what rock is made of, but this place lies.
These things are not here.
I walk and it does not feel the same. I run and it does not feel the same. I climb. I climb higher than I could before. Faster. It feels profound but it is not.
It is lying.
This is false rock. False earth.
I wondered why I came here. I feel lost. I wonder why I came here. I am not answered. The Goddess ignores my calls. I have angered her. I beg the rock to tell me why. It is not here.
I am alone and it is not profound.
It is cold here. At night. Cold. At one time, I would try to start a fire and it would spread. Spread across the false stone to the wood that is not real. Rock does not burn. My rock does not burn.
I ran.
These people are soft. They are prey. I am not prey. I am a hunter. I am a hunter. I do not want to be like these people. I see them walk. They step too heavy. They crack the dirt under their feet. They step too heavy into these temples made of stone and of wood. False wood. Fake stone. They take what they are handed. They cry when they are sick.
I get sick too.
I do not cry.
There is too much noise here. It makes me ill. I do not cry.