Beyond the northern wastelands where dreams go to be forgotten, where the legendary high tension power lines march into tangled heaps of wreckage, where rusty salt barges sputter about and dissolve away, where billboards vomit dusky portents of express oil changes, where steadfast location engineering generates an inadvertent legacy, where lonely stands of pines filter incandescent and nuclear light, where time mirages dot the coast line, where we don poisonous armor to ward off strange flying creatures, where a crisis of destinies pulls us away and into the darkness yet again, where our hand made dream catchers from childhood clink-clank into one another and crumble apart, where words and worlds whisper, where owls still gather in schools and sing in 7/4 to an embryonic moon, where the past and the future, both forever ungrasped, are forfeited to the bigwigs and their brokers, where great oak trees are chainsawed into heaps of hallucinating sawdust, where hacking the akashic records is the only option to escape the crucible, where you awaken on warm and sparsely populated shores to find your initials carved into each piece of driftwood, where the violinist of the moon vanishes before the final note is bowed, where the cicada must sing before you can return home, where a truer form unfurls as the great wings of metamorphosis engulf the emerald skies, the dreams of Connectedness Locus are spun and Terraforms can be heard.