I don’t need to tell you that you’ve already passed the anniversary of your own death in some future hold-out in the mountains. But so what.
It is difficult to realize how rote and programmatic your love-life may once have been.
Feelings of high human longing will invade your senses just before an elite team of Navy SEALs storm your mountain compound and eliminate you with, like, extreme prejudice?
Trudging under your pack, blissed out from the final ascent, you’d walk amongst the long tables, the contented tourists eating their bretzels and weissewurst and drinking the helles beer while taking in the stupidly magnificent vistas of the triumphant Austrian mountain desolation that seems to hang, somehow, over their heads.
Which reason is so epic and cosmological that it begins to retreat into the obscure, the downright abstruse: that cosmic aloneness is the bride of existence, okay, but do the design choices of your hotel room have to be so hellishly hotelish?
Meanwhile… Somewhere in the Caucasus, in the 11th century…