In my childhood village home there was a mysterious mountain. It was called Spirit
Mountain. No one had ever climbed it.
By day, Spirit Mountain could not be seen.
With thick mist shrouding its lower half and clouds that covered what rose above, we
could only guess dimly where it lay.
By night, too, Spirit Mountain could not be seen clearly.
In the moonlight and starlight of bright cloudless nights its dark form might be
glimpsed, yet it was impossible to tell its shape or its height.
One day recently, seized with a sudden longing to see Spirit Mountain—it had never
left my heart—I took an express bus back to my home village. Oddly enough, Spirit
Mountain had utterly vanished and the unfamiliar village folk I questioned swore that
there was no such mountain there.