Averaging less than two inches of rainfall per year, Death Valley has by all accounts forgotten its thirst. A need that has been systematically denied over the course of thousands of years, since the Pleistocene era, since lake manly had depth, has become a mode of being; the lack becoming the architect of the landscape, it is not unlike the way in which we accommodate our circumstances, even as they cripple us, especially as they cripple us; the needs that await fulfillment become a part of our selves: our texture, our potential, our cross to bear, our hope. It’s amazing the way life keeps living. Like the runt of the litter, Death Valley’s rainfall depends on what’s left after the weather has made its way through the mountains. Perhaps this is why the mountains surrounding Death Valley are more akin to prison guards than they are guardians. Some years there is nothing left. Some years Death Valley is so inhospitable, it resembles both the moon and the sun simultaneously, or an emaciated dog, it’s life disentegrating, crumbling, carried away by the gentlest of breezes.