The wind never stops blowing.

The air tastes of peat, as if the devil wind carried it all the way from some Patagonia blanket bog. The world looks hot but feels cool, so that my skin feels betrayed by my eyes. There was never much color here, even in more placid times—but now what little color existed has been leeched away, drained of sustenance, whisked away by the wind.

This landscape is an experiential puzzle, a sensory conundrum; it is what it ought not to be and isn’t what it appears. It’s a clandestine countryside—one thing on the surface, another just below, and both things are true and both are false and the wind never stops blowing.