This week, we now find ourselves in a forest.
Nothing but our shoes, a simple pack and a scrambled map.
The map has been stained and torn by the countless hands that passed it along to our own.
The trail faintly cuts through the mosaic of green and the map is now almost indecipherable.
But up ahead, cutting through the noise of the birds, the streams and the twisting branches in the wind, we hear the watery and metallic echoes of the spirits.
They’re shaped just like us, but maybe they’re just reflecting everything we are and everything we’re supposed to be.
They guide us.
Drone Jazz guides us.
Image: Rob Mulholland‘s Mirror Sculpture Installations.