About

The trains don’t stop here no more.  They slide by somewhere on the horizon, black smoke billowing in a tiny column, barely in sight, which suits us fine.

The sun was too hot, the freeze too deep, the land wild and unhospitable, and we all died of influenza or the elements or starvation or violence.  We drift through the skeletal buildings unseen now, about the business of keeping this place haunted with our memory in case a traveler should stumble through.

We spend the days pressing our fingers through walls, scouring the place for points that creak when a spirit moves them.  The barn has hundreds, and we move through it like wind, like age, like history, loud enough to scare the hell out of the most hardened outlaw.

At sunset, we gather on the mesa to sing, scrawl pictures in the dirt, and tell stories.  We laugh into the wind, and the sound drifts on the air all through the town.

Assuming you are weary enough and your body is broken enough and you feel the sway of the fading heat, you can join us most evenings.  In the twilight hours, between the time the bottom of the sun touches the top of the horizon and the time it disappears, when wierd movements and shadows awaken your sense of death, when your shudders pass and you yield to the wierd sense of timelessness that dwells beyond the roads of progress, well, why don’t you sit down and sing with us?