Every world has them. The ones who pass through. Who observe without belonging. Who float above the landscape with their cameras, their curiosity, their careful distance.

In this world, the guitar lifts you. The strings that were made to connect — to vibrate, to resonate, to move something in the person listening — here they suspend. They hold the basket above the ground. Above the questions. Above the static-headed cattle who have stopped moving and are looking up, as cattle rarely do.

I built this world and then realised I wasn't sure of my place in it. Was I the designer? The observer? The one floating at a comfortable height, notebook in hand, watching the effects of the monuments without having to stand beneath them?

Am I the tourist?

There is something honest and something uncomfortable about that question. The tourist is not unkind. The tourist is genuinely curious. But the tourist gets to leave. Gets to float away on their guitar balloon when the static gets too loud, when the longhorns get too close, when the questions get harder than the view.