The city below aren’t unknowing about what happens on the goddess’ mountain. They’ve all gotten used to the smoke and to the death and to tourists who wants to prove something.

The smoke is thick - or is it smoke? Might be fog.
All the nature is on the other side of the mountain, and there is nothing that reveals all that heat to the city. The people has gotten
used to inhale the humid air. Or smoke. Or whatever it is.

Sometimes they’ll hear a scream from a burnt person. Sometimes they’ll pretend it’s a bird. That it’s not something terrible. Nothing that can haunt a house.

Someday the pouring gold will turn. Flow to the east instead of west. Cover the city with soft metal, and the world will call it Eldorado. Ignore the statues with haunting expressions that only can come from someone running for their life.

The godess takes her victims, and the world expects her to finally be full. Be satisfied.

Like she’s not like any other woman. Like they don’t all know the hunger of a woman. Don’t know the energy that it takes to melt and devour the whole world.


The fog always revealed the true borders. Leave me on the mountain for two days, take me back when I stop sleeping and start screaming about yellow gold, talking about