The desolation of the desert. Deep silence. The outer edge. Beyond. This temporary place, as permanent as anything. Autonomous Zone. Free Zone.
In the night, the beacon is a structure my own hands helped create. Almost a decade has passed. Bright red neon pops from the full moon illuminated sky. Stark lines. A perfect permanent home.
Even at night, the desert is hot. I feel the tiniest lick of coolness on the under edge of the wind. The warm fingers caress my face and hair. I breath the air. Taking the freedom of the wind into my lungs. It can not be captured for too long. Trappings of traditional social structure evaporate like water.
Fire is not necessary for warmth, but for entertainment. On the bluff the crowd watches. There are just a few of us in the wash. The danger zone. For explosive expression. There is something about the compressed and compact - pressure fading away - unfolding in blooms of flaming exhalation. A cinder cloud rises for a moment and shimmers away. A beautiful explosion. Pressure released.