Tuesday, March 24, 2020


Somewhere, under the gravel near the gravity defying Tsingy, tenaciously clinging to a wall in a craggy cavern, precariously hangs what remains. Imagine the surprise of waking up in such a place. For one, there's no need to imagine.

Winding down into the salty mist of coastal spray, a carved path curves sharply and opens to view a tall obsidian spire. Fog climbs up and bails off in rhythmic puffs. Although smooth as glass, and wet from spray, no light seems to reflect on its angled surfaces.

As if it were a giant shard of black glass, the rock jaggedly cuts through blue skies to impose itself. Like the light it seems to absorb, thoughts and energy are interred at its event horizon. At the golden hour, it's your thoughts; It's my will.