Regardless of how deep the cavern, there is always a point from which I could go no further. Light reaches a certain point, sound reaches another, but the surface along which I grope, damply, in darkness with the sense of glistening, reaches to that innermost or distantmost concavity, stretched thin right at the cusp of dawn. I am always layed out upon that surface where I stand or lay even, layed bare, in the distant plains rolling out beneath me each circling vision I have ever glimpsed of my body is present and my body, seen, is, different from the ground, standing out in human form against the continuity of the earth. My form appears preposterous in most landscapes. In my discomfort I appear too human, too propped up by the earth. It is my charge to turn and prop up the earth. If I can not hold it back, stand pressing this terminal concavity in the sleep of the rock, it may very well recoil upon itself, draw itself back into day, right itself with a final predawn glimpse of clarity and intention. If I am not able to hold the ends of this cavernous night, how then shall I remain in service to the earth, how can it feed of me. It is with my own charge, were I to see the sun rise in Idaho again, that I give myself to the night. The complete innermost darkness of the cavern is still not enough to keep from betraying the openness of my hiding place. The sun knows that these rocks, these surfaces, lay in dark holding its memory. Even that this very continuity of the earth, drawn in like a breath of rock and back out, is of the day and of the morning and that flash before the morning. I know that the sun is there, and although beyond its rays, I sleep in the fashion of the waking.

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