SAID THE GRAMMOPHONE.COM on GODS ASSHOLE:

"I'm climbing off the dusty ground onto a smooth raised area. The floor of this area is softer, and easy on my feet as I attempt to mount the curved area above, curved outwards and almost impossible to climb, save the small ridges that seem almost built for hand and footholds. I eventually make it to what can only be described as some kind of wide diving board, which I'm forced to swing out onto, and use its slight elasticity to propel myself up onto it. I then run down its shiny surface and head towards the real climb. I use my grappling hook to latch onto wide brown soft bands that wind down around the massive pillars. Once the bands have stopped, I'm forced to climb only using the flesh of the pillars themselves. Thin black ropes hang, each about 4 feet long, across almost the whole surface of the pillar, which makes it easier. Eventually, even the black rope-like cordons stop, and I can only mash the soft sides into hand shapes, and just lift my whole weight that way, as if climbing a set of filthy rubber curtains. And as I reach higher and higher, as was foretold, I expect it to get brighter and brighter, but it only gets darker and darker. Until, having reached the exact coordinates of my destination, I find myself at something of a dead end, my bare hands covered in muck, my brow dripping with sweat. How could so much prophecy, so much legend, have led to this? I allow the anger, red now and venomous, to build inside me, until eventually I punch the very spot I was told to go, and lo, my hand sticks. A portal. A window. Salvation."