There is a place not far from North A where the trees grew around a gorge. It's not a very dramatic looking thing, the boulders have been chiselled away by time, wind and water. But when the sun shines through the leaves, one feels connected to the very soul of Scarom there. Even without the drugs it's amazing.
I've been there, many times as I grew up. I ran there whenever I wanted to hide. The rocks gave me shelter, kept me from being seen. I could sit there, observing the woods around me for hours on end. The bugs, as they crawled, the birds as they sang, sometimes swooping down from the trees, upsetting the all permeating calmness of the forest. Squirrels ran from tree to tree, deer and boar wandered free and unbothered, unseen by human eyes.
This beauty was the source for the poetic
