A sparse wind chime plays amidst the pre-thoughts of a gray-green desert storm in some mythical yet half-identifiable place. As you walk through the desert, you find an ornate, classical, 18th century Viennese building. You walk up the inner steps of the dark, creaking building and find yourself in a dusty hallway filled with the mildewed scent of forgotten books containing illegible scripts, etchings of fairytale creatures from once upon a time, and illustrations of herbal remedies for warts. The first room on your right is filled with darkness and under-lit roman busts of leaders whose bodies fell with the rest of their empire. To the right of that room, you find a white-wigged man, sitting in the shadow of Mozart, composing feverishly on his Harpsichord. Across the hallway, you find a Viennese spiritualist exhaling ectoplasm and sitting at a candlelit table with Jung, Proust, and some rather stylish women from 1904. You pass an old Appalachian mountain witch and hear her spoon striking against a copper cauldron as she cackles the ingredients she is pouring into it. Finally, you come to Caitlin Harper. She is sitting at a desk in the last room at the very end of the hallway. She listens with all six senses to everything around her- past, present and future- attempting to capture the spirits of her environment through whatever physical medium she can find.