The hills are made of glass... glass and mirrors, smoke and mirrors and glass. You can't see yourself, but you can see yourself everywhere... it's confusion, it's war, it could be the fiercest battle and you can't tell, deaf you lie in thirst, hunger, and beat out into the rock.
The stone is sudden. A familiar reach. Your hand gazes across it and your ears shock into flame. Startled, you draw back, but the ringing cringes and flattens, slowly flattens, dulls, dull and gone into peace. The battle is upward. This is a war.