your feet echo like a sad legend over the crests of rock between the rocks in which the river flows in the escarpment. rapids rapidly crushing the crumbling edifices, their vibrations stumble into the emptiness

cracking boulders from their cradles in the barren, dark brown cul-de-sacs. minerals and fishes that swim only a third of the way upstream are met by a grand, dying facade.

this is the true recession where your feet are implanted. eroding bedrock engraves your name, chipping away at the tombstone.

marked under a deep, watery grave, your name impedes free travel. though the tribulations have died down, and the torrents have gone;

all destinations are concluded northward.