….long banished by the newest people of the peninsula. He was slowly inched into his final refuge in tiny cordoned off mountain asylums without any say in the new country’s day-to-day operations. His polyvalent homes, spotted throughout the façade of meaningful mountains live in a parallel universe that is only allowed a whisper, a peep, and a peak into ours, every now and again. Things, things upon things consciously constructed, unconsciously deconstructing. Where once silence sat supreme, there is now the unbroken sound of modern man’s noon-day panic. A pacing implacable existential ennui awaiting us in the space just past the day’s finish line and before the next’s beginning. We lay awake mapping out our careful tip toe through life unto death, averting every corner of modern uncertainties, as we descend deeper into the trick maze.