Raconteur Road
Freedom is having one arm that is tanned browner than the other arm. Freedom is not quite knowing where you are going. Freedom is writing “freedom” in the dust of your dashboard. Freedom is listening to the long-song sung by the rhythm of the tires on the corrugations of the gravel road. Freedom is waking up in the middle of the night to find the Milky Way tangled in the branches of a Frankincense tree.
A landscape photography book is in production.
So is the road that produced it.