They say it doesn’t rain much here, but I don’t know anything about that. I came from dry places and up on hilltops that looked over oceans, now wheat fields and mountain ranges I know by name. I can feel myself getting older because the seasons here change and that tells me more about being alive than any of the books I read. I spend a lot of time driving and it lets me think more than I would like to; black asphalt rolls out in front of me, endless, and curving around landscapes that I used to make up in my imagination. I never knew there was so much land to be had or to be seen or to be drunk in at three in the afternoon. I start thinking about accusations I’ve recently made and clothes I plan on sewing back together. In a given week I have learned the world can seem both equally unfair and remarkably correct and often times at the same time. In bed this morning I could feel my body still asleep and yet my mind had begun to wade through those early thoughts I often have. They tinker and totter somewhere between what’s real and what I would like to be real, and what I would like is for these mornings to never change, but what is real is that they will. I could hear the rain they say never comes clattering against the old window panes and collecting in thin puddles out in the front yard and when I finally did wake up I had the overwhelming feeling as if I hadn’t been gone the past week, like I had made all of it up.