Maps say Brazil -- Tocantins, perhaps. But that's not how you'll find it.

You'll recognize Cristalândia by your experiences there -- by the marks you've made on it. Walk slowly, though, because marks are small and illusive. The marks we make are often only as permanent as an elongated shadow and as private as the discoveries made in this mutated form.

Marks fall to the ground, accumulate under your feet and are pressed into the history of the earth, so that when the rainwaters rise, your toes can sink down into the mud and rearrange the generations.

But all this is obvious to the people of a mining town whose daily business is to commune with the soil. The big machines exhume ancient mountains and sift through their secrets, scattering the marks onto the hillside to dry. It's a good business when business is good... when the big machines come.

For now, the grasses grow, and the grasses burn, wrapping the marks in green and guarding their young vestiges with sheets of fire and fresh ash.

The grasses guard your marks, too.

And they'll find them, when the big machines come.