Ralf Webb

The mobile home park is stale and tightly packed, like a deck of cards soaked in lager. Antennae surge from every bitumen roof, doubling and trebling in size, outbidding one another for the attention of satellites, which are foreign and incomprehensible. Which are well made. Their relays assemble landscapes within pine-walled rooms: frontierless superhighways, white beachfront, tracts of...