In every culture, throughout all of human history, we have built monuments. To our gods, our leaders, our values. The things we worship, we make large. We make them permanent. We build them to outlast us.

These headstocks rise from the hillside the way cathedrals once rose above medieval towns, impossible in scale, unmistakable in intent. A declaration of what this civilisation holds dear. Three Jacksons, iridescent in the afternoon light, presiding over the landscape like elders.

But what grazes in their shadow.

The cattle move through this world as cattle always have. Static where the gaze should be. Receiving but not seeing. Fed but not nourished.

I found myself wondering, in this phase of the journey, how much of what we consume we actually choose. How much of our taste in music, in ideas, in what we find beautiful or true was shaped before we ever had the chance to decide. The monuments were already there when we arrived. We were already grazing beneath them.

The warm sunlight makes it easy to miss. But this world has questions underneath it. Who built these monuments? And who benefits from the static?