On the path, bathed in light, and on this path sits a fork, to the right, the not so gently sloping road to the top of a sky-lit mountain top, to the left, soaked in darkness that the sun can’t penetrate, the route deeper, into the Undergarden. The road to the right, long unkempt, left abandoned for it’s implied difficulty of passing, becoming intraversible with time. The route to Undergarden, worn even deeper with countless crossings due to the promise of an easy journey, deeper, down into the Undergarden. And so you walk, willingly, obligingly deeper, till the sun has no hold on the horizon, even the insects begin to fear the silence, bodies strewn across the path, left separated from all those in the world they used to belong, abandoned, alone, they say silence is the loudest cry never heard. At the end of the invitingly easy walkway, the Undergarden, a place that has seen no light in more years than there are people, a place where the maddening sound of silence is suffocating, poisonous, it gets into your veins, corrupts you. And in the end, in Undergarden, the world of light is nothing but a hazy memory of the past, a fleeting delusion of the mad, that must surely never have existed for themselves.