2003-08-20 - 6:11 p.m.
We wandered so far north there weren't any trees anymore. There wasn't any night either, just that warm pink sky, so close now I could reach up and run my fingers through it. There was just that sky and the endless frosty plain stretching out to either side of us. And the road, the road that wound ever forward, becoming rockier and less defined with each mile we passed.
We stopped when we came to a great open pit off to the right side of the road. It was alive with tiny winged lights of every conceivable color, zipping and buzzing this way and that, dropping down into the chasm's indefinable depths and rising back up again. Soft sounds drifted upward from the pit.
Gregory cut his engine. We knew we had come to a Holy Place. Music wafted up to us like a thousand thousand shimmering twisting threads. It was something out of memory, something from so long ago I could no longer remember clearly. The music was the music of souls, the thin, intangible strands that bound our world to the world of the living.
Gregory prayed silently, the kind of prayer only a 1974 Pontiac GTO can pray. And I knelt too, and closed my eyes. I didn't know what to say, though, and so I just knelt and listened for a while, until I heard Gregory's engine quietly turn on again behind me, and I knew it was time to go.
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