Each cairn is about five thousand paces from the last, but not exactly. I don’t know if it varies because the cairns are uneven, or if my paces become longer or shorter as I go, or if the ground of Erebus expands and contracts, like breathing. It is a strange place, in the most absolute sense that it is strange to me, foreign and unhomely. It is a place that could never be a home, however long one might remain here. Perhaps that is the first truth of Erebus: death is what it is. It is not an answer, but something that negates questions and answers both, and nothing in life is preparation.