Dust covering my hands, shoes and every visible surface; the complete absence of kind chatter, the conventions that crumble when touched - a material disintegration bordering on the categorically interstitial. What I've come to identify as geospiritual wrongness is experienced as the timeless inability of the landscape to afford man; I feel its echo in Adam's punishment, accursed and newly growing fangs. A solid body transformed by the void. All cosmic horror depends on this failure of our recuperation tactics; we become unable to maintain the integrity of a disrupted conceptual scheme.
I look to the sky, but it is relentlessly grounded to the earth and its arid blood.