If I had a computer in the crater on Monday night, this is what I would have sent. . .
When was the last time I heard nothin at all? I feel like I have to whisper out here or else I'll break the spell. The occasional fly buzzes me, but other than that it's just us and the wind. It's not the creepy kind of quiet like bein inside the anechoic chamber at Shure, it's a peaceful, extraordinary quiet.
This place is a beautiful wasteland. Very little grows on the volcanic rock, dust, and ash. Only the ridiculous silverswords. These things bloom once in their 80 year lifespan, then die.
The sun bakes the porous earth. Heat waves rise off the ground, but the air is a cool comfortable breeze all day. Even now, my left side toasts in the sun, but my right shudders with a chill from the wind.
The dust, oh the dust - caught in crevices I didn't even know I had.
The coulds not above, not a backdrop, but a part of the landscape just as much as the hills or the colors in the dirt.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment