IN PROGRESS
—I had arrived in a pristine world that I could not have properly
imagined. Nothing felt stable; all was sterile, temporarily, shifting,
piling up, subsiding.
[...]The inner walls exposed layers of lava and scree tinged pink
from oxidation, or stained yellow where sulphur had condensed
around innumerable perforations in the rock.
[Clive, Oppenheimer, Mountains of Fire]
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