When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

On Our Way Through


Arriving somewhere but not quite. Fleeting impressions of states of

emergency and


sounds of distress rise and merge with the city before the

eyes of the dying


for a haunting, gaunt image of life in turmoil, in transition,

crashing through the embers


of time. We are existence in self-reflection. We are deadwing.

We are compromised,


angry, wonderful and free, our beauty borne out of the ruin we

create and the wake


we leave behind. Our shine in the dirt, our voice in the din, our

plain disregard for


the sirens that wail to lure in our aspirations, offering us

real estate in their watery graves,


our calls against them, the charms we wield to protect

ourselves, our defense against deletion,


our shield against the whirlwinds. Travelers on our way

through, we are on our way through,


on our way to a promise. We live on dreams. The unknown is

our muse. We embrace it and


we embrace everything it bears with it, including the dead,

and the ghosts, and the guilt,


all the unspoken words that flood our minds, all the dreams

we had but never chased,


all the tears, the pain, the laughter and love we felt but never

expressed, or, worse, binged on,


indulged on till we drove it all away, till we buried it under a pile of

delays, under a layer of instant gratification.


All that and more, everything we loved and everything we wasted

and lost, it’s ours, we carry it


forevermore. Arriving somewhere, neither here nor there, somewhere

near, with a long way to go,


and what a pleasure it is to prolong our haunting — our

torturous, formative journey, our odyssey.


One day we’ll look back at it, thankful for the trail and

the scars it has given us.