Sherpa Trek to the Gates of Heaven

Ten dark footsteps fall in silence. The snow crunches through my bones with each. I am too tired for panic. Heedlessly, toiling against the unceasing wind. Only stone and ice ahead, and every thing is sharp. Even the shadows are black razors on the forsaken pass. Slipshod and unraveling cloth whips behind me straining against the air. My hands unfeeling pull up and I taste a sharp inhale of recycled sweat. Above me in the black mountainside a golden door. And the world on the other side.

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