The words themselves are just standing there in the desert. Describing nothing, they stand as monuments: separate, unconnected, devoid of meaning. I do not have the strength to dig them out of the wind-blown sand, to move them and make shapes out of them, shapes both pleasing and sensible.
I carve the shapes, the words, from the rocks I find as I wander the desert, leaving them where I find them. This desert - in the valley between the two hills - is now littered with the words I have carved, some almost buried by the wind-shifted sand. They stand like statues or monoliths, isolated from each other by the uneven rise and fall of the dunes at the valley sides.
Down there, on the plain, there are other carved stone words, left where I tried to arrange them, tried to find some meaning amongst them. I gave up on that a long time ago. The heat made it too hard to shift the heavy stones. The words lie where I last moved them, half-formed sentences and phrases - nothing more.
I used to want to form patterns, pleasing patterns, find meaning among these stones. But now, once they are carved, I leave them, feeling I have done enough.
The woman in white stands watching from the opposite hillside. Her dark hair and long flowing white dress fluttering like banners in the breeze. At her side, the black panther sits patiently, the pupils of its eyes slits against the bright sunlight.
I tried, once, to go to speak with the woman. As I climbed the hillside the panther stood and strained against its chain. I saw the woman's hand tighten on the lead as she held up her other hand for me to stop. I knew she meant it, and I could hear the low purring growl of the panther as its pupils widened. I paused, then turned back. At the bottom of the hill, I turned again and looked back. The panther was sitting down once more, relaxed, and the woman was watching me carefully.
Twice every day another woman - totally hairless - and naked, except for a leather collar arrives. She carries a decanter of red wine and a glass on a silver tray to the woman in white. She waits, motionless, next to the black panther as the woman in white sips the wine. Only two glasses - always just two glasses. Then the hairless woman climbs sedately back over the brow of the hill and out of sight.
*
It is nearly time for Gina to arrive, I have no clock in my room, nothing except my bed, my desk, my chair and my notebook; but somehow I always know when it is time for her to arrive. I get this feeling. A feeling of... what? Immanence, I suppose. Expectation, perhaps? I wish I knew the words. Apparently, I used to know the words, words for everything. It used to be a major part of my job, so they say, but I have no way of knowing, not any more.
Gina said - I think it was yesterday - "Why should I lie to you?"
And I said: "Lie?"
I didn't know what the word meant. Gina explained it to me, but I am still not sure that I understand. Why should anyone say something that is not true?
I suppose the rain will fall again today. It has rained for the last... how many days? Three, I think, or it could be four.... I don't know, I can't really remember. It is hard to remember anything these days.
I walk to the window every now and then, and look out. There is not much to see, just the grass and that big old tree. Its leaves are turning brown, yellow, even golden now, so I presume it must be autumn. It is hard to tell, but I suppose the tree could not lie.
It looks cold out there. How I know that I do not know, I may just be inferring it from the tree losing its leaves, or maybe it is something about the light, the sunlight. It looks bright, when it is not raining that is, but it is a thin kind of light, as though it carries no power... no power of warmth, not like the sun in that desert.
