It began with a gaze — a face formed by the land, looking back.
Stone and sunlight gathered into presence for an instant. Then it was gone.
Curiosity tipped into conversation — a need to listen to what endures when the earth is stripped bare — to what came before.
Once mined for gold, the scarred landscape bears the trace of our greed.
It remembers, and its knowledge is older than ours. The land is a witness.
Beyond the apparent absence of life, slow and quiet, moving beneath our notice, is a pulse. Other measures of time become audible — the time of stones, of microbes, of stars.
To linger here is to feel the world shifting scale: the churning below the surface, the orbiting of constellations long gone, the steady breathing of soil as it bleeds and digests.
Even in ruin, matter dreams.
From the wound, new riddles emerge — crystals, spores, unseen bloomings.
The current that flows through us carries on in other bodies, other imaginations.
What remains is a language unfolding — the patient heartbeat of the world, waiting to be heard.
Fools' Gold is a work in progress, expanding with every return to the former mine.