Tucson is a city where there should be none. It is in the blazingly hot Sonoran desert of southern Arizona. What water there is there comes in torrents to temporarily flood the terrain. Life (human and otherwise) is ruled by these extremes: Bakingly hot or drowningly wet.

This is a city imposed upon the wilderness.

On the outskirts of the town is a graveyard for ancient military airplanes. The bones and flesh of the old flying beasts are neatly laid out in long rows. They are but sad vestiges of past glory. Carcasses of long faded vigor. An accumulation of billions of dollars spent on yesterday’s latest technology.

Airplanes don’t naturally inhabit the air.

Only an extreme expenditure of energy keeps a plane aloft or a city intact. Air and gravity force the plane back to the earth. Decay, oxidation and erosion corrupt the city and slowly return it to the wilderness.

Entropy and chaos can only be temporarily thwarted.