I am writing this in a club toilet.
The bowl is cracked, and graffiti covers every filthy wall, even if it discusses classical text and the history of Germany. The cistern hasn’t got any water in, only more confetti and party string.
Today I considered how our motorbikes are powered. We’ve been travelling for nearly a week, and we haven’t needed to refuel once.
On the surface we trek between gigs using train, or in a real tightness of funds, coach. One of these bikes up there would save me thousands. Jean-Michel refuses to tell us how the engine works, but I am sure there’s something like a bunch of flowers riding a miniature bicycle inside.
This far into the desert, time gets weird. I posted this this blog only three days after the last one, but I’ve no idea when the release date will be. The sand stretches to the horizon all the way round, and give little indication of distance travelled. Jean-Michel says not to worry. He won’t let us get lost.
The desert is ready to explore!
Maybe deep under the sand is our cottages are buried under sand. Perhaps the monkeys carried Picabia brick by brick to fresh new lands. Whatever happened, sand and goats are all there is for 360 degrees around The Kandinsky. The sand underneath my shoes is soft, and reveals nothing of a hidden world. Even the hills have gone.