I was born and nearly died less than a mile from this spot. Missoula, Montana, 1985.

I've been thinking about distance a lot lately. About how it's what separates me from many people I care deeply about. Across country, across the world, but also within myself. It's an internal struggle to try and cover the right ground. Say the right thing at the right time, and do the right thing when necessary. I have my regrets, and so does just about everyone else. These regrets make us feel indebted to the past, like we lost some bet to a seedy bookie, and gambled away something that you could not pay back. Soon enough, when the bookie calls, you disguise your voice, or make a lie.