A smuggler’s trade, your skins and fat for my marching armies fuses
imagined sites and actual places with notions of success and
failure, un/healthy competition, survival.  In the cool night light,
strange walls of foliage become barriers, confidence courses
appear militaristic and unsafe, golf flags testify to more territorial
intent than a Sunday game, tent like structures are propped up
for makeshift housing, and looming overpasses forfeit notions of
arrival in their incomplete states.


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