Essays, one place at a time. Fewer than the photographs, and slower.
A logbook kept from wherever the road happened to be, shorter than an essay and longer than a caption. It ran for ten years and then stopped. It is left here the way it was written.
Three hours, one loop, and the city turning itself inside out through an open door.
Two thousand of them on one plain, and the argument about who they were built to impress.
Where the Atacama runs into the Pacific, and the swell arrives from somewhere with more weather.