I cannot remember how I came to be standing here. Very much in my own body at the edge of an earthed, clay cliff. Facing me, the statue of a terracotta man stands with his back to the viewing point. A large perfect square cut from his torso. Dark green pines line the landscape beyond. their gorgeous geometry sculpt the land and makes it their own. The fresh, stinging stench of rotting pine needles wafts through the fresh winds.
Gently I hear a whispering and a shape shifting fool joins me. At first it is an old woman in long white robes, and then an old man and then a woman again. Rushing words towards nothing in an eager battle with the wind. I can barely make out any words. I dare not look directly at him, her at first. Then I glance over and smile. I feel at ease finally. Almost like I'm not here witnessing this wise flow of gibberish.
Suddenly, as an old man now, he takes my shoulder and says loudly to me:
"There's no key for that lock you're searching for you know."
He places a small duplicate of the clay sculpture in the square hole. This one faces the land below us. And he is gone. As quickly as he arrived.
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