On the distant spring, I already see fine climbs pierced for the first time through the sharp Moors frost. The spring dew sinks only to burn off in the morning furnace and that fine balance of conditions holds the cold of winter scarce a touch on the skin-maluating summer warmth.
I see the fine eye piece right into the wired hold and a body of pure fragility bounce an inhuman float through the crux. I see the trail of a useless rope kink fore and back, fore and back; a bleak corner of peripheral vision in less focus than the fear raging at the front of my mind. And on that move, the friction alone in what holds you to this world, I feel the rubber peel and the skin roll.
Do you die or do you live? On the move it doesn't matter. As you set out it doesn't matter. The external observer (in this case yourself) sees only a man set out through the black box. Where the man is and whether the man is alive cannot be observed. You're a black cat both alive and dead and to make the decision to go in the black box takes faith.
The faith to step out on the line is the only way that the new wave can be born. There is no trick, no skill, no strength that can save or advance you. All you have is ambivalence.
Sometimes you get a feeling that something spectacular is coming. I feel as if the whole winter is leading up to a point in April time, when the North York Moors will finally get the unrepeatable line it so desperately craves. The Moors is a black sheep of peculiarity, it wants a route of morpho-weirdness to match. Spirit of the Moors comes from the person, not the place.