surroundings, in a place plagued by desolation, you look for a sign, for a guide, for a watchman.
You dig deep into the sky, move the earth under you feet, climb each rock, each hill. Scrutinize this hellish paradise : a corral made of centenarians stones, a cactus strain, a collapsed wall, a tree made of salt, sand and mud.
Everything is traces, traces of past lives, traces of survival, traces of abandonment. All gone with a noise of relief. Replaced by the wind. Leaving you with nowhere to hide from this constant whistle that shut yourself off.