Truckupidööm rolls on basalt stones, and in a hypnotic inertia of sensual mileage, and the pleasures of trembling, releases from her body plastic and more plastic, spring and more spring, metal and more metal. She sheds industry's father from herself and turns to mother earth, to the sand hall and the whistles of camels, to the reddish threshold where sunrises are burning fire, and silence is an azure eternity.