Something about the smells of rotting. of the sink trap stink of sulfur and shit, puffing out whiffs like a locomotive, of the permanent scent-tattoo of phosphorous urine in old institutional bathrooms, or of piss as product, a complimentary, supplementary bodily-engineered chemical agent, slightly acidic and warm. we are sitting and sleeping on a hot spring hotspot, a troublesome landscape pimpled with secret fissures to the molten within, where we dream a little strangely, dreams that are a pungent compost of deep pasts and frantically, bitterly, sweetly arriving futures. we sit and sleep well-side, dipping our buckets into golden water drawn upwards, looking for and finding chthonic spoil.