Spent a few hours on the Connemara plains, outside Clifden. Traces of Marconi’s experiment puncture the bog. Gravelly concrete shapes. Obloids. Huge rusting screws stabbed into them. Blending in with the November grasses. A dull canopy of clouds sandwiched us in between the land and the sky. An acoustic wind tunnel pulled around us. Any old sound amplified. The lake lapping and licking the peat. The grasses gossiping. Traffic travelling far away to further away and back again. There’s talk in the head of performance. There’s talk in the head of lights and rain proofing. There’s talk in the head of communication. The profound disappearance of it.