Ah, yes. Here we see it. Mount Hood. A colossal rock, indifferent, truly indifferent, to the puny aspirations of man. It looms there, a silent sentinel, scarred by millennia of ice and wind. A testament to geological time, utterly unfathomable to our brief, flickering existence. One looks upon such an edifice and understands the ultimate futility. The cars below, so many vibrant colors, these glistening shells of human industry, parked in a meticulous array, as if their owners believed their journey held some profound meaning. They come, these souls, to gaze upon this mountain, perhaps seeking some transcendence, some comfort in its grandeur. But the mountain, it offers nothing. Only its cold, unyielding presence.

Observe the snow, clinging to its flanks like a tattered shroud. A remnant of winter's harsh embrace, slowly succumbing to the relentless, insidious warmth of the sun. It speaks of cycles, of beginnings and endings, of an endless, cosmic dance that cares not for our brief concerns. And the jagged peaks, like teeth of a primeval beast, tearing at the sky. One can almost hear the wind, a mournful lament, whispering secrets older than memory. This is not a place of mere beauty. It is a place of raw, unvarnished truth. A mirror reflecting our own infinitesimal scale against the vast, indifferent universe. One feels, in its shadow, a profound and necessary terror. The terror of being alive, for a moment, in such a place, before the inevitable curtain descends. And still, they park their cars. They walk. They look. They hope.