the_forgotten ovenbird Numbers run backwards. Maybe time does too. We climb into the rusting cage of a decrepit elevator and descend to the 16th floor. The gears grind, the belt screams. When we emerge it is in near darkness, deep underground. Other people are gathered here—trauma tourists with backpacks and binoculars, hiking poles and cameras, tents (in case they decide to stay overnight), paddle boards for the lake in the afternoon. They are here to see the prisoners, the lost, the broken. They mill around the edge of a pit dug into the dirt floor, the top covered with a heavy grate. From the black recesses of the muddy shaft voices float upwards—weak cries, wails, pleading, moans. The sounds enter my body like a thousand splinters. I feel every facet of the unfolding agony. I can see the reaching hands in my mind, filthy nails torn to the quick. We’re here intending to rescue forgotten souls but I find that there is no way to raise the grate and even if I could there is no way to lift these bodies from the depths. You go to peer into the darkness. I refuse to look. I will not gawk at suffering I cannot alleviate. “There’s no hope,” you say. “There’s always hope,” I reply, “But sometimes there are no answers.” I throw a duffel bag over my shoulder and turn away. 250909 what's it to you? who go blather from