That night, we find ourselves at a hostel nestled between two mountains. Without an address, we'd gotten here only by plugging geographic coordinates into the navigation system on our rental car. The thought of travelling to a single point reducible to numbers without knowing where you're really going to end up has never lost its magic. There are no street lamps, no road signs and no markings. When we find the place, it is by spotting a yellow flag. Entering the hostel, we lay out our bed sheets, and, needy for dinner, we walk back out into the cold, then the car. There is a faint glow over the lower sides of the mountain to the right. We drive in its direction, and arrive at a point when the glow morphs into a ray, and then looking down from the edge are rows upon rows of city lights. A labyrinth of life stirs and its ordinariness stirs further. It looks like an hour's drive away, and yet it's the closest we've been to civilisation thus far. In the dark, our trusty Toyota Fielder works its way down, and with the heaters blasting, the alpines hide shadows - of monsters, of men, Of Monsters and Men on CD playing in the background. As the wind whispers warnings through the valley, there we are, like wide-eyed neanderthals coming out of a cave, with only the light to follow.
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"Still building, then burning down love"
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