Touch: By the time I write this it’s wet. Small raindrops sprinkle expectantly on my hands. The stone is rough and scratchy where I touch. The stone cracked and unstable. The grass is smooth and my feet slip slightly against it. It is windy here.
Smell: It smells of dust here. Dry dry dry, though the sky smells expectantly of rain.
Sight: Most of this place is sight, we are up about 40 feet and the view is amazing. To my right I can see green lake. From here it looks like it got some water from the rainy nights. It also seems to be brownish red, with white near the edges. Here on the butte there is lichen growing on the walls, which extend another 20 feet up from where we are, green in places, rusty in others, often a combination of the two.
Taste: The place tastes of untouched stone. A bit dusty, very very old. Somehow coming close enough to kiss a stone impresses it’s age upon me. This place tastes older than the oldest temple known to man.
Sound: Comparatively this place is noisy. Sound travels far here, and I can hear ducks quacking from the lake below, and other birds as well. Hawks, ravens, robins. Cars spin by on the highway, and even voices echo to find me here.