The Sangre de Cristos at the edge of night. Deep maroon sky, circuit traces rising dark red from the valley, the ridge lines outlined in cyan and magenta where the rock meets whatever this atmosphere has become. The same mountains. A different frequency. This is the range at the moment just before something happens — the sky compressed, the color held back. Standing before these mountains in person, there are moments when the light fails and the peaks go dark and enormous against the sky. This is that moment, run through the machine.
