MYSTERY, CONSPIRACIES AND SLOW MOVING ROCKS
We took it all away, and what we were left with was nothing. There’s enough out there to make you wonder if tumble weeds get lonely sometimes. We could say so much about nothing, but there’s more to feel as it slowly surrounds you. An evening in the desert; a homage to mystery, conspiracies, and the slow moving rocks. A sensory bouquet to accompany the tasting notes of a place not known.
Someone once said that the rocks went to the desert to drown themselves in nothing. They found so much of it, that their minds preserved and became immune to the curse of time. Fossilised caravans scraping across clay and sand. Squealing on a muted chalk board. Running like garishly red fingernails against the hour glass of time. Poised until they turn liquid, to form like condensation, drop down the edge of the earth, and signal the sway of time’s hands.