Within, the buildings seem somehow strage to our senses of proportion. The rooms are long, dug deep into the cool earth, and narrow. They feel more like halls, passageways, tunnels, than rooms, though in some of them beds lining one side, or chairs arranged in little clusters down the length, or other such groupings of furniture, are enough to show that they were indeed rooms. The movement from one doorway to the next is unimpeded always, nothing to circle or move around, as if they expected anyone moving through the building to, for the most part, move swift and straight.

There are other oddities. Among them are the few huge rooms that have none of the artfully-placed furnishings, rather great carvings lining the walls that reach out with limbs and tendrils, staffs and stones and founts of water hewn from the rock, some of the carved bits jutting out for several feet into the room. There are the shallow trenches dug into the outer edge of every room in a few of the buildings, lining the walls with what could perhaps be drainage ditches... but leading to some central basin rather than to any outer spout. There are what have been nicknamed the stables, for that's what they seem to be, stables similar to most you'd find in any equestrian's barn save for the fact that they are, again, several miles straight up a steep near-vertical cliff face.

Who built them? Why? Were they lived in, as many of them seem to suggest, or were they some elaborate creation similar to the thousands of miniatures included in egyptian pyramids, intended to somehow become the residence of one's Self after death? Some questions, it seems, we may never have the answers for.