the walls are high.
from its base, it’s hard to tell how high they reach, rivaling only the deserted mountains that surround them. even birds change their course not to crash against them.
despite the long unaccounted for and undetermined age, the fortress doesn’t look old.
the goldish brown stones hum a very low but strong rumble, and irradiate a gentle
[, almost confortable,] warmth.
those able to see it, are puzzled by the enourmously strong glow of octarine: changing light into million fractals, creating ever moving shapes, flowing lines and sketches of past memories, that follow the rhythm and music of a heartbeat
even sound falls short facing this fortress: its colossal mass absorbs all echoes and spoken words into its depths and oblivion
men are drawn to it, only to fall in despair in front of this unearthly giant. slowly, this stronghold corrupts and eats up their souls with the promises of immense wealth and happiness beyond it. in an obsessive feverish attempt, men desperately seek an entrance, a gate, something that will allow them to cross over and get to the dreamed land, slowly driven to complete madness.
it is said, however, that these walls have a weakness, a secret.
only those who know it, or those who by strenght and purity of heart manage to find it, are able to open up a door. a gate that may appear wherever it is summoned to if, and only if, and never ever by any other means, the person trying to enter undresses all pretenses, masks, selfishness and touches the wall with pure mind and heart
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