John T. Gast

Taking very light steps and trying not to hammer the ground or our heels, we re-tooled objectives. Striding through a landscape dotted with sarsen stones, much like those used to make stone circles, we all remained naïve.

Passing the literal on a backwater canal sleeping by rivers to purify our ears. Nudge an ideology and enter a great valley where a dead saint had been buried. Glimpsing vaguely in a blankness, cursing in fatigue the dogs who yelped at the feet of a broken-hearted beauty.

Understanding the process of becoming in, where there is strife and pain there is being, which is virtue in which only the object shines in and out. Following a motorway devoid of habitation where the landscape consisted mostly of wind-blown pastures on top of cliffs.

Walking in a gloomy night, we added it all up. Worn-stone relief of the green man positioned directly underneath a surveillance camera. Hearing a minor chord of wind sigh through the leaves of chestnut trees, we reported nothing.