Feel your hair, your clothes, bend to the breeze - just as the crops around you do. You are the meridian wraith, and to the workers only your scythe is visible above the golden sea which dances at your feet. Look north, past the watermill and all signs of honest industry, to the metal city in the clouds. Turn away, and cast your eyes back to the expanse of worked fields, patchwork ochres punctuated by the odd beech tree. You remain watchful.
Before long, she is tearing the curious room apart at its very seams, her creative ambitions for sound driving her to pull ancient lampshades from the ceiling, peel plasterboard from the walls. Above all, a mathematician, a scientist - her cassette recorder is her implement, and she drags out both the ethereal and cerebral from the shuffle of furniture against the carpeted floor, or from the plastic snap of the lightswitch. She breathes into the microphone, plays the recording backwards, splices it with the hollow taps of the radiator tepidly issuing warmth into the little basement room. The artist will be remembered as a comet: she has learned to recreate the scorching heat of the Sahara desert just as well as the subaquatic depths of some fantastical watery abyss.
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