To the east the Amargosa Mountains tower over Death Valley, to the west it’s the Panamint mountain range leering down at the desolate landscape. If you look north the Sylvania Mountains, to the south the Owlshead Mountain range reigns supreme. The mountains faithfully ensure that Death Valley will never be a prairie, or a forest, or a house so packed with guests you can hear the laughter from a block away, feel the warmth as you stroll pass, smell the pies as they bake in the oven, wondering as you make your way, what it’s like inside, the faces; the affections, the exchanging of thoughts, the imaginings of being in someone else’s shoes. The loneliness of the desert even an island knows nothing of.