i'm on a carnival boardwalk, empty but for ghosts & a friend whose show i promise to watch & then abandon, & one girl i half-remember. her act verges on burlesque but shys away from it; is more a jewish dada oracular event. something. when she is done i help her wash out some of the pie tins she cooked in, without her asking. she seems frightened & excited to see me, but doesn't reveal anything to me, though she does agree to travel with me. leaving the boardwalk, there is a vast familiar green & rocky plain, like the world of shadow of the colossus. the girl & i meet a bald black locksmith. they're clearly searching for something, but i'm only searching for the death of the god of this place. they stay behind in camp a little ways from the giants of this place, while i go on ahead, infiltrating their castles & destroying them.
i get about five done before we realize there are two other forces at work, with their own agendas; another group of wanderers & a dark, dracula figure. i question the vampire from the lip of a cliff, him below me-- he tells me the god of this plan is not nimrod, but pan. that not just the titans are his avatars, but the castles, the land. he mocks me, asking me how i plan to kill the mountains, & i plunge my sword into the cliff & tell him i'll find a way. i take my group & head to the most daunting of the palaces; the place i previously assumed the final boss was in. it is notable for being largely vertical & for being filled with pneumatic tubes accessible only from both inside & out. i enter, & start climbing, the castle little more than towering shafts with junk stuck into the side- doorknobs, refrigerator handles, curtain hooks. the ascent is precarious, to say the least, but i eventually get to the first pneumatic tube slot. the deposit is in the catch, sent from somewhere higher. i open the clear plexiglass slide from this side & push the things in there over: papers & photos wrapped in wax paper, things that look like the mini-hard from a music box, & some kind of device for reading them. the girl & the guy take them out & start to look at them plugging the harp into the reader. they refuse to let me see the things in the wax; i assume they are about me, about africa, & resolve not to push the next batch over so quickly, without looking myself. suddenly the other group of wanderers come; they want what is in the box, & the outnumber the two outside, & have guns. they take everything but a few of the harps, which the locksmith pockets.