It’s hot. The heat is oppressive. The wind is blowing but it isn’t refreshing. Stiff and dry. The landscape is ancient. Rocky. Dusty. Barren. Like another planet. Mars but brown, not red. Still, I love it here.
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I'm on the 17th floor. Outside the sun has set.
The Denver Art Museum is a super funky building. In some aspects, it reminds of the Disney Concert Hall in L.A. but with more angles. Not as swoopy. It’s definitely recognizable.
Can. Not. Wait.
I fly a lot. A lot. The more I fly, the more I have become interested in the people I see in the airport. Why are they traveling? Where are they headed? Which group do they belong to?
Outside, the neighborhood is dark and quiet. Inside, my wife and daughters are deep asleep buried underneath a crazed mishmash of blankets. The sun isn’t due to rise for another hour. There’s a swell coming.
Life moves fast. It is getting faster. The entire Internet is in our pocket. Knowledge, for pleasure or purpose, is very nearly instantaneous. People take immediacy for granted.
I am sitting in 38F. A window seat in the last aisle of a pressurized metal tube hurtling itself eastward across the country. On the ground, country roads divide the fields into squares and rectangles. The definition of a country mile viewed from above.