Just outside the outskirts of Amarillo lies a dusty patch of dirt, not too unlike countless other patches of dirt on the unending plain of the Llano Estacado escarpment. To the north of this dirt is the highway. To the south, the pancake-flat horizon stretches for miles, undisturbed—save for the abrupt appearance of 10 psychedelic monoliths, stabbed like daggers into the earth.