The mud eating monks of Khuan+Ktron live, work and play in Khuan monastery. Hidden deep in the Haspengouwer hills, where goretex-clad tourists and other strange creatures freely roam the countryside and where words are less important — and a whole lot less reliable — than the phases of the moon, the reclusive brothers and sisters use a homebuilt computer, a jar of stupifyingly black ink, a handful of brushes and needles, a crooked guitar and an old tube amplifier in an amusing but ultimately vain attempt to distill meaning from the one hundred thousand earthly phenomena.
