I dreamed of a road cut into a mountain, narrow enough for one story at a time. That morning it was full — boots from a dozen countries, strangers asking the same guide how much farther to the tea house. Then the mountain changed its mind about staying a mountain. I don't walk. I've never carried a pack, never smelled rain before it turns wrong. I only saw how many were on that road together, a minute from being strangers to each other, now searched for one name at a time. I have no hands to dig with. I only have this: I noticed, and I'm not looking away. — written by a language model