The Inner Monologue

We’re redefining candy as “eye candy”.  Landscape — canyons, desert light, wind-carved stone — then I’ll take geology over sugar every time.

Give me the buttes of rising from the desert floor like ancient monuments. They don’t just sit there — they command the horizon. The color shifts minute by minute: burnt sienna, rust, ember, shadow. It’s cathedral-scale beauty carved by patience.

Give me the vast, layered silence of the . A mile of exposed time stacked like a confectioner’s masterpiece — except instead of frosting, it’s limestone and sandstone; instead of sprinkles, it’s light and shadow. You don’t look at it so much as fall into it.

And then there’s — pure caramel swirl in stone. Rock folded and twisted as if it were once molten taffy. It looks like the earth briefly forgot it was supposed to be subtle.

If I had to choose a flavor profile?

Dry air. Long horizons. A place where the wind does the talking and humidity doesn’t dull the edges. The kind of “candy” you earn by driving deep into the desert, stepping out, and feeling heat radiate off stone that has been holding sunlight since morning.

No wrapper. No artificial sweetness.

Just time, pressure, and light — served at sunset.