The winds of last night return, now casting their dance through an equally open space—its surface harsher; impact amplified. The fate of the rocks, however, remains the same as the sands: crushed.
Onward into this Unknown.
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The patterns aren’t as easy to trace at night; they’re heard, and at times felt, more so than seen. Distant static plays tricks on the psyche, tan turns to chrome, and the cruel mirages of paradise drift into cold echoes of infinite dune:
“#001” was slipped in the mail today and signed “Best, Unknown”. The artist may or may not be someone we’ve heard from before, but whatever; this is a welcome numbers game.