Abyss

The clouds were caressing the crest of the mountains helped by the orange wind that was swung by the first lights of the day. The rocks began to be clothed by the scarlet blanket woven by the passing of the sunrise trough the clouds. The valley was waiting for its warm wake up in a pleasant doze. All the creatures, even the trees, were still confusing fiction with reality, waiting for the lucidity of the sunshine that covers all the irrational holes in the supposed rational reality. His hands were stroking the little scars in the rock, taking care of them, taking care of himself. In every new movement he was making deals with the new scars, introducing his fingers in their world and trying to be a nice host that, although, was bothering the rock when the arms of Helios hadn't already heated the ancient skin of the mountain. The hands, the feet and the scars in the skin. Long time ago he had understood than that he which clung wasn't a simple and inert rock. In his mind, the boundaries between the object and subject had disappeared, little by little, since the long excursions with that teacher in his childhood. After that, he was never the same. He was always misunderstood and treated like a mystic that had been irradiated by the false enlightenment of the, always misapprehending, eastern religions. The sun started to bath all the valley and it began to fell, in the middle of the warming sun, in the cold rationalism about the boundaries between the possible and the impossible. The blind lucidity of the sun not only affected the sleepy valley, also affected him. Or it. With the earlier faint rays of light he, it or they, was or were confusing the limits between the rock and the hand, the valley and the mountain, the air and the lungs, the death and the life. The mantle of sun extended in the valley began to heat he rocky wall also. He felt the difference. The wall was reflecting the lucidity of the sun in his face. The scars began to warm up and started to flowing out trough them all the rational questions that tie the humans in the comfortable place of the stability where, without any risk, they can live peacefully but they can't explore the boundaries of their psychological, moral and physical landscapes. He, finally, experienced the border between the object and subject looking below his feet. It was there, so far, the sunny valley. He began to breath faster and faster and his body started to distinguished from the impassive wall trembling like a scared man in front of his last heartbeat. His foot slipped and an agonizing scream came out of his throat. The scars disappeared. The hands, the feet and the cracks in the wall. He pressed his fingers into the crack and kept his body glued to the rocks. “Relax! I'm here!” The voice of his companion confirmed his wake up of the illusion. His own appearance that he felt more deeply than the reality defined by the agreement of those who are supposed to understand the land that they step.

His companion. His life in the hands of his mate, a few meters below him, hanging in the middle of the abyss. He breathed deeply and looked at him and at the rope. A line between two men, a relation where the lie means death and where without confidence the rope gets rotten and anticipates the bath in Styx. He remembered his teacher. The same line, the same ethical commitment, the same confidence, only few years ago. Without his teacher, surely, he wouldn't be hanged in the wall, exploring all the limits between he and the mountain, the humans and the nature.

He was only a child living in the suburb of a big city trying to grow up in the middle of a steel and cement jungle. When he met for the first time with his teacher he was earning some money in the fastest way in those times: burning the countryside near the suburb to create more space to build new infrastructures to the city. Earning black and fast money expanding the frontiers of his steel and cement jail. That teacher. Always talking about the Ancient Greece, talking about dead people while his lessons were plenty of live. The professor knew that those children were full of life and he knew how to take the raw material. Once he rode a note in the wallet of his professor: “I mean that they should not play life , or study it merely, while the community supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live it from the beginning to end. How could youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment of living? I think this would exercise their minds as much as mathematics”. It was from a very clever man from America that live two years in some hut near a lake. His professor always was talking about him. Every weekend the teacher found the way to bring all his students to the mountains and then, in the middle of the nature, something began to change. In that moment he didn't recognized what but, in the middle of the wall, he understood everything. All the αίσθάνομαι¹, all the feelings and all the perceptions of the humans, trough the πάθος -the suffering- conditions their character: the ἦθος. He remember the words of his teacher when they were in the mountains, “suffer in the landscape and suffer the landscape to change ourselves”. But all those excursions wasn't a one-way path, the teacher always closed the circle. The ἦθος, also trough the suffering -the πάθος- conditions the kind of relation with our environment, the kind of our feelings and perceptions. The character conditions our, in the words of the teacher, αίσθάνομαι.

Was a great strategy by the hand of the professor. The aesthetics conditions the character, the ethics, trough the suffering. When the students suffered the aesthetic input from the landscape they change, step by step, their characters. There was infallible. The new character was rooted in the aesthetic feeling from the landscape. Forged in the suffering, the landscape now was part of the character of the students. This new ἦθος, mediated by the suffer, would establish a new way to feel the landscape. The ethics conditions the aesthetics. They, now, were part of the landscape and the landscape was part of them. The burning ashes of the countryside were, now, burning ashes of himself. Definitely the boundary between the subject and object was destroyed. “The landscape could change our character in the same way as a common human relation”, these words from the professor were carved with a hammer in the brain of him. And this change, as his teacher taught him, occurs more easily with the suffering in the landscape. The nature can't change anything on us if we don't interact with her. And was in a kind of special interaction where he discovered the most powerful changes: in the directly way to the sky in the middle of a wall. Where the relation with the landscape purify the relation between humans maybe, he thought, for the interest to stay alive. The purity is established in the middle of the dirty. Anyway, the abyss lime all the remaining and let the essence: πάθος. The suffering.

Now he could understand the words of his teacher: “The difference between aesthetics and taste its made from some guys that try to avoid the unique universal true saying that is some common beauty for all the humans”. Pain, suffer, pathetic that conditions the ethic. Ethic that conditions the way of suffer, the way of feel the pain, the way of being pathetic. There's only one universal true for all the humans: the suffering.

- Come on! What're you doing!

The voice of his partner stopped his thoughts. He drew a smile in his face, looked at the sunny valley and stare at the distant peaks.

- πάθος! Is the only way!

- What're you saying! Stop your bullshit and climb!

- You're right! Let's go back to the action, the only way to establish a fertile relation with the landscape!

- What the fuck?

- Nothing, I'm only hungry!

- Oh, look that! Even the mystic needs some real food!

- Man I never see anything more real and more nutritive than πάθος! I'm hungry of life and all that it entails! I'll be like the mountains! Imperishable in their destruction! That is nothing more than kind of construction! Altough, yeah, what the fuck! For sure I'll apreciate a big peace of our cake in the summit and a big shot of ice wine!

- So, shut up and let's go man!

1From which is derived αίσθητικός, aesthetic, sensitive.

In fact, she was always here.

In Iceland something is happening with my fatal and futile vision on philosophy. For me, always was important both theory and practice, thinking and act, philosophy and life, but lately philosophy was transforming into a stone in the wheel of life. Thinking so much can stack your foot in the dust. Sometimes I couldn't see a connection between the philosophy, that is (per definition in our days) academic, and all these things that keep me alive. Was a long way trough the literature, the climbing, the adventure, the death, the life, the alcohol, the travel, the urban nights, the landscape and a lot of different ways that, although I don't seems like this to me, were so closed to a kind of philosophy. This kind of philosophy that hates the classrooms, the "Sirs", the academic meetings in luxury halls, the haughtiness that is believed unique for keep a border knowledge and the pretension of being an Olympus between loosers.

Walter Bonnatti and Henry David Thoreau. They remember me something: life and philosophy are a greateful contradiction, but they need to be embraced like a unity. An entire existence is a philosophed life and a lived philosophy. Existence. This word fill your mouth when you host in your body action and thinking, life and philosophy.

How is the best motel to the pleasant coppulation between life and philosophy? Motel Ethics, for sure, in the road that goes to the Politics. But the way is another history, today we stop to fuck in this tearing motel of the convictions. Fuck.

In this motel we need to think to act and act to think. Philosophize to live and live in philosophy. This not make sense in a life distant from the honesty. If I want to philosopize, to think about the consecuences of my actions, and prove this actions, it means that I want to live in honestly with myself. The wild and the mountain were so important in this conception of the true with myself. In the mountain and in the wilderness the lie to yourself means death. Bonnatti, Thoreau and London knew very well this fact. The life in contact with the extremes of the wilderness and the mountain gives to you the experiences and the material to construct yourself being and it never can lie yourself, because in the lie appears the face of thanatos, waiting to charge the price.

My return to the philosophy is a return from the wilderness and the mountains, and is a back to the essential of the thinking: the ethics. The study of oughts and of relationships: ought to realte honestly to ourselves, ought to relate honestly to the others and how we ought to relate honestly to the earth. For this purpose I want to read the basic writings about the subject. I started with Euthyphro of Plato and, in this first reading, I could see how living so much without thinking can sink your foot in the dirty dust of imbecility. The dust is always there, ready to cling to our feet. The holy dust that kills me and give me the life. These mountains, this wilderness. Sometimes we find more than we expected in the emptyness. Hug the contradiction: the emptyness is fullness.

This will destroy you", all the album "Young Mountain", but in speciall this song; "The world is our" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDijgL6yW3A&list=QL

Crash in the wall

Wake up in the morning. Look up to the ceiling. White ceiling. Clothes hanging in the pale lights. Vestiges of activities in a brown table. An old book that has me in check. Wind going into the branches further from my bed. Big walls. Sensation of protection. It's only a wall. It's more than a simple wind. The ceiling, white and unspeakable, goes down and smash my brain. The breeze. Could take you to the confines of the world and could destroy you. I want both. Open the windows. The wild wind goes into the room and starts to destroy everything. Begins with my convictions. The gale annihilate all the lies in my mouth, in my soul, in my deep beliefs. Then I can feel, that is better than understand, how my steps were following the path of the uncontrollable folly. What I want? Why I'm here? Partially destroyed. The wind becomes in a warm breeze and starts to give me wings. I want both. I have both.

This will destroy you; "Happiness: we're all in it together" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4pcrMmP88A&NR=1

A J S E

A river going down the mountain. It's nothing. It's all. All the big oceans started to be before a little stream, flowing rock by rock down the steep slope. Only a blind mind could say that the little stream isn't powerfull. Every stream could be startling. Only potencially, you never knows. A little stream could dissapear into the rocks or can be dried, copullating with the, for the moment, white clouds. And, also, could be, few kiometers beyond, a strong river running down to hug the huge ocean. A stream is a stream. Nothing more. A step is a step. Nothing more. A day is a day. Nothing more. What's the meaning of a single step in a travel between Ogygia to Styx? What's the meaning of the flow of a stream between two rocks in the course of a huge river? What's the meaning of a single day in all of our life?

Jerk in the middle of the stablishment. A explosion of steam beyond this dust that strangles us. A look that tries to reach the horizon and can't rid from the white and overwhelmingly ceiling. A slipknot into the chest, embracing our lungs, trying to keep all the anguisly sources from our eyes in the middle of the throat. A song dancing with the moment drawing a honest and deep smile in our skin. A spontaneus and alone grin in the middle of the main street in these days that the clouds cover even the cheeks of the citizens. The disappearance of dizziness when i'm alone in the darkness only accompanied for the distant litany of the city lights, trying to cover the fears of the people in the middle of the night.

Surrounded by posibilities, we're forced to try or, if we don't want to decide, to die in life. Day by day. Every sunshine, another decision. Every spine belong to our vital spinal column that we draw in our imagination, dreams and fears. A day is only a day, but it can build, step by step, stream by stream, all of our life. Every rise in the east is a new oportunity to continue creating our arquitectonic masterpieces of existence.

Emptyness of vanity. Was only a night. Only an oportunity to still building all my way in this handmade railroad. Another chance to overcome my fears and to consolidate my dreams. The dizziness into the darkness disappeared, is only a step. The fire burning in front of my tent tells me that I need more experience, that is more days, more knowledge and more oportunities. Knowledge. You never knows the source of it. A book, a song, a hug, a wound, a landscape, a kiss, a punch, a call of your mother, a true coming from a inquisitive lips, blue eyes looking fixed at your face. You never knows. I was trying to stimulate the fire but the little sticks was so fast burned and I remember it: "Burn the grey moss" this novel from Thor Vilhjálmsson. I looked at my surroundings and started to search the grey moss, after twenty meters of walking and nervous breathing I founded it. And, with calm and carefully, I putted it into the fire. It worked. The grey moss started to burn and fedding with fire tongues the stick above it. My whoop echoed in all the slope and, maybe, in the streets of Reykjavík. Perhaps people heard it. Not was a drunken boy or a fear scream in the middle of a streat. Was the soul coming out of the throat of an alone boy trying to be himself building his way, step by step, stream by stream and day by day, into the wilderness.

Early Day Miners, "Light in August" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEDzUdU7u3s&list=QL

Beirut, "My wife, lost in the wild" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1m975PSevQ

E S J A

Entrerprises going up the hills. These hills that surround everything. Destroying our dignity, puting our heads beneath the rocks, beyound our posibilities. And we like it. And I love it. Is not a businness, is an enterprise. Is this deeply feeling to overcome our impossible dreams. Rocks rolling down the hill, destroying all the grass, colliding with other rocks cutting in two, three, four pieces our delusions.

Stones crackling with our ambitions, making loud and dark music rumbling in all the valley. And, the honest humans, still staying there trying to go up the hill. A lot of people turn his face to the plane, forgetting his dreams. A back can't see the espectacle. Rocks crashing with the back of the turned humans. Only the brave that still loking to the summit can see directly at death. Eye to eye. Face to face. A imposible dream against a sure death. And only the brave can turn his face sometimes to the plane, to see what's going on, and only they can turn another time the face to his dreams. And they still there, trying to die honestly, putting all his life in a stupid step to reach a drem, dying more and more, step by step. Trying to die in the only way that a human can die. In contradiction. Turning the face into the plain is the easy way. The rational way. And isn't the real human way. The line where the human walks is plenty of dirty, dizzy, agony, asphyxia, noble rot and beauty, magnificient, hallucinatory, inmensity edible and respirable, hearths larger than the body eating all the rational brains with his bloody veins. Is the way between the rational and the irrational, the rotten and the edible, the philosophy and the life.

Journey between life and death. Staying always between them. Only the brave. Only the wild. Loking only to one way is the same that cut your body in two painful parts, with a big and cold steel knife. Look only to the summit. Look only to the valley. Cut your life and eat only one piece of it. Only the brave can stay in the middle of the hill fighting against the rocks and trying to stand up all the time, avoiding the easy and the rational way, staying in the essential of human being, between the ineffable mandness and the blind lucidity, between the summit and the plain. And avoiding the irrational way, trying to run against a rock going down from the summit and crashing his body into a wrinkled surface. Only the brave. Only the calm. Binding his brain and his legs with rude ropes attached to the steep ground in the middle of the hill. Maintaining in calm his brain and his desire to run away, going down and looking only to the infinite flat. Maintaining in calm his legs and his deep desire to reach the summit, running up the hill, only looking at the rock in the top. Forgetting all the other things. Obsessed with a point, with a dream. Longing. A dream rolling down the hill catching the poor dreamer that die under the big rock.

A blind lion trying to hunt a fly, an intelligent wolf trying to drinking all the wather of a river. Ineffable madness, blind lucidity. The ineffable summit and the plain lucid. Between the madness and the lucidity. The wild. Always in the edge. Only them. They don't try to live like animals, they try to live like humans. No blind lions. No intelligent wolfs. Humans in the phylum of a steep hill with their deep calm. The calmness is the only way to stand up in the edge. All the surrounding animalized humans envy the wild humans. The lions and the wolves try to kill the humans, burying their wild brightness in a noisy and dusty cairn. And, surrounded in a cloud of envy and calumny, the wild humans still shining. Envy and calumny. The bright and wild sucesful is not forgiven never.

Johnny Cash, "Solitary man" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5rVmXyZP5s

Radiohead, "Motion Picture Soundtrack" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ju8xO_Zvfo

Early Day Miners, "In these hills" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y92-d__Rbmw

Apatía en el paraíso

Son las 5 y media de la mañana. No puedo dormir más. Alguien se ha sentado en mi pecho y no me deja respirar, otra vez vuelvo a necesitar ese corretear de mis dedos entre el teclado. Aún no he tenido tiempo. Digerir. Fue, ha sido y está siendo una semana atípica. Este martes, tomando alguna copa de Porto, decidimos preparar la travesía entre Landmanalaugar, en la que ya veníamos pensando unas semanas antes.

Decidimos partir el miércoles por la mañana para tener tiempo de recorrer los 55km de la ruta entre los Highlands hasta el domingo. Eso implicaba saltarse alguna que otra importante clase, pero preferíamos el páramo antes que el aula. Una checa, un austriaco, un alemán, un italiano y yo nos metimos con todo nuestros enseres en un Nissan Terrano hacia las 7 de la tarde. En Islandia y, a sabiendas de que debíamos atravesar cierta parte de los Highlands sólo reservada a coches con buen ropaje, eso significa que si hay problemas no los vas a ver: aquí las noches nubladas no son oscuras, son abisales. Para los neófitos, los Highlands en Islandia es toda aquella tierra lejana al necesario bálsamo marítimo en estas tierras árticas. Todo lo lejano al mar en esta latitud se convierte en un núcleo climático continental. Veranos secos e inviernos fríos. Sólo la vecindad de algún glaciar aporta ese alimento que permite la floración del musgo. Lejos de los glaciares sólo hay roca y arena. Sólo. Nosotros andábamos a tientas por la relativa cercanía del glaciar. Lo sabíamos por el mapa. No había musgo en los montes para testificarlo. Nuestro único mundo era una vía sin asfaltar iluminada por los tenues faros del Nissan, ausencia a un lado y otro de las ventanas de nuestra fortaleza. Me esforzaba por sentir algo y lo único que abrazaba era esa sensación de tremendo escalofrío cuando uno piensa en lo peor. El sentir es posterior al digerir. Antes de llegar a nuestro primer lugar de reposo, un cauce que engullía paso a paso la vía nos obligó a pararnos ante él. Bob, el alemán y el dueño del coche, se enfundó unos pantalones de pesca y comprobó la profundidad del río. Los faros del coche dibujaban un cono entre la caótica lluvia desordenada por el viento. En la radio sonó una canción que debía ponerme los pelos de punta. La falta de digestión cubrió mi piel con una final capa de helado metal. Montamos la tienda entre un vendaval intrépido que nos asestaba dolorosos picotazos lanzándonos finas gotas de agua contra la cara. Pusimos el coche frente a la dirección más común del viento. Común. Aquí jamás se sabe por dónde va a venir el imponente céfiro, sólo hay un lugar por el que es más común que éste se deslice.

Tras una noche con la tienda en la cara, vencida por el hijo de Hípotes, Eolo, el dueño y señor de los vientos, pusimos rumbo hacia el destino del día a una hora cercana al mediodía. Calculé la dirección de marcha con la brújula pues se oteaba algo de espesa niebla en el horizonte, aunque no había que preocuparse mucho. La senda estaba bien marcada. Debía sentir algo de emoción por empezar la nueva ruta. No sentía nada. Comer demasiado rápido puede conllevar una digestión complicada. Atravesamos parajes creíbles aunque inimaginables: el verde, el rojo, el azul, el naranja, el negro, el gris, el amarillo, el celeste y mil colores más se reunían ante un escenario que clamaba al cielo en desesperados aullidos cromáticos. Las sulfatas se sucedían y el paisaje cambiaba cada cinco minutos. Me esforcé por sentir algo de nuevo. Miraba a mis flancos y me detenía para tratar de captar algo. Nada. Mi estómago necesitaba reposo. Asimilar, otra forma distinta de entender la digestión. Cuando llegamos a la cima de un collado se presentó ante nosotros un yermo negruzco repleto de obsidiana repartida por aquí y por allá. Mirando al horizonte encontré con mis ojos un hito entre la niebla. Me acerqué a él. Recuerdo perfectamente su nombre. Ido Keinan. Un memorial hacia ese chico de 25 años que en Junio de 2007 murió congelado entre una tormenta muy cerca del refugio. No podría ver ni sus propios pies entre la niebla. Esta vez la digestión se reanudó por unos momentos y mi cuerpo se estremeció ante aquél montón de piedras que recordaban unos huesos, una carne, una sonrisa. Una vida. Lo vivo recordado con lo inerte. Cruel destino para el hombre. Ido Keinan, ese nombre me hará recordar por el resto de mis días que ninguna senda es completamente segura. La falta de respeto hacia lo que te supera es una vía directa hacia el óbito, así cómo el miedo es un buen carburante en esa autopista hacia el memorial, hacia el recuerdo a través del helado canto.

Luego de atravesar un paquete de hielo llegamos a la cabaña, flanqueada por el Este con una enorme y enfurecida sulfata. Montamos las tiendas entre unos círculos de piedra que protegían el débil tejido de las embravecidas ráfagas de viento. En aquella cabaña encontré una respuesta inesperada. Me encontré con un alemán que me habló de su viaje hacia el Yukón. Charlamos sobre Jack London y sobre nuestro sueño común de la infancia, aquélla ilusión por descubrir los parajes que London nos dibujaba en nuestras hambrientas mentes. En medio de Islandia, entre una rojiza sulfata rodeada de anaranjadas montañas y glaciares cubiertos de ceniza volcánica, estaba planeando viajar hacia el otro lado del océano. Algo no iba bien. "Más despacio" escuché entre las puertas de la cabaña. La rapidez suele detener las digestiones, al menos en mi sufrido estómago. El resto de la tarde lo pasé encerrado entre mi garganta, tratando de reanudar aquella interrupción digestiva que me impedía mirar al horizonte con honestidad.

A la mañana siguiente el tiempo fue más duro de lo esperado. Decidimos reconstruir nuestros pasos, desandar lo caminado. No tuve tiempo para deglutir bien lo comido y de mi boca sólo salían estúpidos sonidos que nada tenían que ver con la justicia debida a mí mismo. Podría escribir acerca del paisaje que recorrimos. Podría. Y me dolería. No sentí nada. No puedo escribir honestamente si no siento algo en mi piel. Mi estómago estaba completamente saturado. El exceso de acción satura la pasión, principal motor de mis palabras. Pasé el viaje de vuelta encerrado en mi esófago, tratando de encontrar aquella puerta por la que entrar y pisotear toda aquella comida que ansiaba ser deglutida.

El ansia de exploración saturó mi emoción. No tuve tiempo de asimilar todo lo que iba comiendo, todo lo que iba viviendo. Sin digestión no hay comprensión. Una vez más el lenguaje, las palabras, se revelan como ése estómago que tritura lo vivido y lo hace comprensible o, en su defecto, sensible. La rápida acumulación de lo vivido sólo conduce a una experiencia turista, lejana a la sensación reflexiva que deseo encontrar en el ártico. Respirar, pausar, masticar, engullir y digerir. El exceso de comida deslizándose por el esófago satura al estómago, sumergiendo al cerebro en un baño de angustia que impide la nueva ingestión de vivencias. En mí, al menos, sé que la rapidez sólo conduce al desencanto y a la helada apatía que aleja el alado deseo de seguir viviendo.

There and here

She was standing near the harbour, the old harbour where her father told those histories about sea monsters and large travels trough the seas. Her legs were hanging on the edge of the pier. The edge, always in the edge. The sun was meeting the end of the sea and a silent red explosion was hurting the edge of the sky for a while. This sky, this sea and this orange breeze. No more and no less. The fight painted in her body a sort of oranges and reds, fighting too to colour her milky skin and her golden hair. Her hair, her skin. The histories of her father started to bleed on the sea, painting all the surface with a nostalgic red mass. Her home started to burn and her heart was trying to find the way to find the burned ashes. Her hands was standing on the rocky pier, feelling the cold and irregular surface. The same rock where her father talked about humanity, morality and the whole meening of human being with all those old fishermans. Those old mens that were fighting for his lives, against the sea and against himselfs. This sea, those old mens. She was trying to rebuilt her old house with the hot and black ashes, but the wind of the sunset throwed the black dust to the bloody sea. This blood, this ashes and this live. She never understood, like the old fishermans, the brave sea, the wet pier and the orange sun. Never. Always in the edge. Her father was always walking in flat terrain, talking about what happens there while he was living here, talking about something that never touched but was living in the tongue of all of this cults mens. Only in the tongue. She never touche those humanity that was standing in the tongue of her father. She only remember the strong and lovely tact of her fathers hand in her head. She was standing always in the edge. Between all and nothing, like all the humans. Like all the things in her concrete world. The sun finally defeated against the sea and her father started to walk on the bloody sea, searching always there. Trying to live like a God jailed in the bloody body of a concrete human. She was still sitting in the edge of the pier, the black and cold pier, looking at her fathers sinking in the sea. The weight of a God is too heavy for the human body. In the edge, between concrete and abstract, between the sea and the sun, between the death and the live, between the ship and the harbour, is were the human is a human, were a feelling is a feelling, and no more. The white skin beated the sun. In the edge, waiting for the next day, another battle. The same battle. Another day. The milk against the sun.

Early Day Miners, "In these hills" --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y92-d__Rbmw