Sisyphus decides—why not— to let go of the stone he’s been rolling up a hill for what seems like forever. He falls back, onto the long grass, noticing the deep groove his stone has made in the hillside, remembers how he would always get so far and then it would somehow slip his grasp, start rolling back the way it came, to wait for him at the bottom of the hill. Now it tumbles over a field he’s never seen before, getting smaller, disappearing into the blur of distance. He knows this is hell he’s in, no doubt of it with all the treasure here, the brightness dragged down from the upper world and spread out like scattered flowers and all the people, doomed to torment, misery, the loss of everything they’ve ever loved but still looking, for the moment, almost cheerful.