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Directions are meaningless here. There is no up or down, no right or left. Only the place, only the idea. But somewhere not here, sometime not now, there will be no place to go. There will be no movement to speak of, and nothing to say. The way will soon be barred in every direction. There will be no flames, but the fire will be real enough.

Oaks grasp at the fog. Gnarled branches like arthritic hands, reach, come up empty. Pale epiphytes hang from the fingers.

Like Piranesi's carcere, these are prisons of the mind, prisons of our own making. On the stairs to nowhere, absurdity devours its own tail. We try to build things from our imagination. But nothing matters. In the end, it will crumble.

The path is marked with yellow paint. Sometimes there are arrows, and at first they seem to point the way. Upon closer inspection, they point in all directions. Odd though, how I came in fighting demons, and left stronger, much better afterwards. I'll give back with my words. I hope they reach far enough.