When your skin is worn away by wind, by time, like Macdonnell Ranges, what will emerge what will be left to face the sun? Worthless quartz stripped back may reveal an opal. But you are an island your shores are fences built by foreign cash, you are ripped into beef roads and investments; the abos move to cities, their homesickness cauterised by cheap wine and promises of jobs. Speculators will ruin this last wild place, few will protest, for profit eases consciences. In thirty years here will be nothing to distinguish this from mined and gutted countries anywhere. Our leaders betray us, sell our heritage, what remains is not worth stealing, and so becomes an Army weapons-range.