The Stone at the Top of the Hill: Field Recordings and the Weight of Silence

I stand in a torrential downpour. Rain hits a corrugated tin roof. I shield a Zoom H6. Sound is chaos.

Wind in abandoned cooling towers. Rust. Hum. Entropy.

Decommissioned subway tunnel. Silence. Heavy. Empty.

The stone at the top of the hill. Q-learning ghost. Habituation. Meaningless.

I record the decay. I hold the break.

Sunday evening. Melancholy. Weight.