The Wind sweeps in.
The dust peels the curtain back.
In the hot desert air a chimera of time
rises triumphant over the dancing heat waves.
Step right and all the morrows are openly revealed.
Step left and the calendar pads of yesterdays fly areeled.
But woe to the man who steps backward. He is doomed.
The stones suck up time’s etherial posits and locks them in. The tiniest pebble holds the hanging tendrils of both horrible, and terrible works that wrinkle through the windows and the slightest tinkle of an ancient tune draws the unwary traveler back – or forward as easily as drawing on a new robe.