In the valley they speak of a vast beast that winds and loops around the mountains. For every inch was an arm and every mile an eye raised high into the clouds on stalks like skinny legs, knees broken.  

So far into the sky were the eyes that they gathered frost when deprived of the sight of the sun. The beast had a thousand eyes, one for every mile of it, but saw all as if it were through one eye and so he believed it to be as such.

One day the beast's stalks ached in a particularly unnerving fashion. The beast could feel the joints sliding against each other, a feeling almost like a sound, like humming into a fan. Agitated, the beast bent all its stalks inward, something it hadn't even thought of trying until this moment, bringing his eyes down below the clouds, 

down past the mountain peaks, 

down into the valley.

And what the beast did see down in the valley shattered his singular view as every eye began to focus on its own unique panorama, flooding the beast's nerves with more detail than it could hope to process, let alone interpret.

And so it was that the beast drove its eyes into the ground, blinding itself forever, and stretching its stalks once again it heaved its massive body into the sky.

And that's why, every mile or so in the valley, you see those legs sometimes, sprouting from the ground and reaching into that one great weird dark cloud.

It's also why the snaps.

Love,

the dead minotaur