My new cartwheeling companion and I set off for deep playa. Now, when someone gives you directions to some spectacle outside of the city proper it’s usually in reference to one of the main roads leading to the man at 3 o’clock, 6 o’clock and 9 o’clock. Anything past that the best you can get is ‘walk to the edge of civilization, and keep going.’ It’s an odd sensation going from a ‘place’ in the middle of nothing, to theĀ *actual* middle of nothing. These are the Outlands. Limbo. Occasional landmarks dot the emptiness, like a series of bizarre mirages. The only difference is that movie theater advertising spaghetti westerns at 2am? Very much there. I hear they even serve Red Vines.

Red and I stumble across a set of gates surrounding a podium. On the podium there is a large book full of blank pages, and a handful of pens and markers. ‘The Book of Missed Connections’. The pages are full of drawings, sentiments, gibberish, notes, replies, inspiration and observations. We spend a few minutes leafing through these fragments of people’s experiences in this place. Some sad, some celebratory, all heartfelt. There is something about the act of putting your emotions down in such an artifact, like you’re leaving a sticky note on the fridge of the universe. It has meaning. Significance.

I gather myself and say my piece, calling out to the companions who were unable to make this wondrous journey with me. In doing so I feel I’ve done their spirits justice. Brought a little of them here and sent a little of the dust back to them. It’s a small thing, but small things have more power than we know.