II

Porta is a pilgrim’s shitty. Few who happen upon it by chance remain. Only the desperate souls seek it out, believing that its pains offer hope.

It sits amid a field of clear blue towers, each of equal height. White canopies adorn each tower’s top. They are the same, yet different. Each contains its own temple and sacred history. Indeed, its history is often smeared upon the temple walls.

Each day, a hundred years pass within each temple. Each night, the history is erased, with no trace of the wonders that have occurred. In this way, each temple is like a shitty with a thousand histories, and no history at all.

Tired travelers tread miles of desolate road to enter its sacred grounds. Yet none are alone in seeking to experience its glories--the gates are always blocked with row upon row of patrons seeking comfort.

Porta’s beauty wanes with the sun. Mornings in Porta are clear and bright, brimming with hospitality and respite. As the light fades, so too does hope. The sky darkens and the mood turns wicked.

All who enter Porta seek salvation. Some find it.