It's dry, and then it's dry, and then it snows a little.

It’s no colder here than in Minneapolis, but it feels that way. Maybe it’s the wind. Maybe it’s the rolling hills and juniper. Maybe it’s the skinny raw faces on the old-timers in their trucks, men who were born here before the boom and will continue on after it, the wind testing them always.

I keep making mistakes, bad decisions. I wake up in the morning all a-wrestle between things I shouldn’t think about and plans I’ll fail to execute. I guess that’s not all that different to how it usually is, but it feels that way. I am isolated here, and feel strange.

Outside is a pile of brown pine needles. Everything smells of volcanic dirt. The sky is dim, and will be even at midday.