Standing on a path, in a wood, in a valley. At the foot of a hill which slopes gently up away from my feet. The nearest trees are flat black back-lit forms. They grow sparsely on the slope but at the top of the hill they congeal into a dark wall. Dead fallen wood is scattered all over the ground, cross-hatching the light dusty soil. Words are written on the ground in front of me. They move up the hill in a vertical space between trees. I read them up the hill. I read them down the hill.