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Iron Mountain: Difference between revisions
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===Physical description=== | ===Physical description=== | ||
The Iron Mountain ''sounds'' like | The Iron Mountain ''sounds'' like it ought to be a jagged, crystalline peak, thrusting into the sky like the shin-bone of a broken giant, presiding vertiginously over an abyssal canyon, plunging from the airless ionosphere miles down into the bowels of the Earth. | ||
It may well once have been like that — the Bards sang their heroic songs about it, after all — but if it was, it is not like that now. | |||
Now it is a vast, beaten-down, low-lying, warm, wet ''hillock''. Because no energy or light can escape it, no-one quite knows where it is, but it sounds a lot like the sort of thing you might find if you went looking for it in Wales. One can — and those condemned to her perimeters do — walk for endless miles, always on a gradual incline, just steep enough to be persistently unpleasant to trudge up, in marshy, saturating earth. One is compelled to carry on until one can go no further, one’s remaining energy sapped, injected and equalised into the air, and one just ''osmotes''; becomes one with the environment; an indistinct aspect of the tepid beige smear. The mount is beset by damp fog, thick enough to obscure your location and your destination, but clear enough to give you the fortitude to box on, in hope that you might one day get somewhere. But you never will. And the mount is noisy — beset with the existential moans, ringing captively around, of the countless souls who have become one with it. | Now it is a vast, beaten-down, low-lying, warm, wet ''hillock''. Because no energy or light can escape it, no-one quite knows where it is, but it sounds a lot like the sort of thing you might find if you went looking for it in Wales. One can — and those condemned to her perimeters do — walk for endless miles, always on a gradual incline, just steep enough to be persistently unpleasant to trudge up, in marshy, saturating earth. One is compelled to carry on until one can go no further, one’s remaining energy sapped, injected and equalised into the air, and one just ''osmotes''; becomes one with the environment; an indistinct aspect of the tepid beige smear. The mount is beset by damp fog, thick enough to obscure your location and your destination, but clear enough to give you the fortitude to box on, in hope that you might one day get somewhere. But you never will. And the mount is noisy — beset with the existential moans, ringing captively around, of the countless souls who have become one with it. | ||