Rhesus monkeys lined the cave walls, some jumping from ledge to ledge, others perched comfortably, glancing from side to side. Two older ones were wildly copulating while others took little notice.

There was a stench from the piles of excrement and rotting food and monkey corpses. 

There was a din. It was the deafening sound of fighting, screeching, and otherwise vociferous primates.

From a vacant lot in Harlem to a cave, my investigation was coming to a close.  I could feel that ambivalent feeling of resolution.

Somewhere down through the cave was the wizard, the oracle, and the God of this aborted civilization.  I knew that now. Every human fear was exploited down this long corridor. (It was a microcosm of the fear that had somehow been sewn and nurtured among us, torturing and separating us, as it now sought to divide me against myself.)

Yet down that corridor there were no physical obstacles present. There was only the fear germinating inside me that threatened to divert me from my course; fear of sounds, smells, and looks. Yes, absent were the senses of contact; taste and touch.