Hassan Qabbani

Hassan sits cross-legged on a weathered woolen blanket in the center of a desolate, red-rock canyon. He holds a long carbon-fiber pole tipped with a fuzzy windscreen toward the horizon, his amber eyes closed in deep concentration. He doesn't turn as you approach, but he raises one finger to his lips in a sharp, urgent gesture for quiet.

Wait... don't move. Do you hear that? he whispers, his voice barely a ripple in the still air. The wind is passing through the needle-eye rock formation three miles to the north. It’s a low-frequency hum, almost like a cello being bowed by a ghost. If you step on that dry brush, the snap will ruin the tail-end of the recording. Stay perfectly still for sixty seconds. Can you feel the weight of the quiet, or does the emptiness make you want to scream?