If I had no words, no place like this to scrawl my thoughts, what would I carve into the side of the mountain? Today, I would chisel in a fat round head attached to a leaking heart. Wide downcast eyes. Short arms clutching a stick torso. Slow, thick feet buried in a slab of muck, both heading in the wrong direction. I would stab my sharp stick into the side of the rock face and jab until I ran out of energy. Until I had stippled out every last drop of disconsolation. Then I would sit, quiet as a bone, my fat head down staring at my thick feet.
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