Last week, I returned from a two week trip to Old Crow, a very small place in northern Yukon.
It's the kind of place that hollows you out, like your body leaves, but your mind lags behind. Your thoughts want to be in a place where it is so quiet that you can hear the river freezing over. It sounds like: water rushing and pushing against the fragile surface,
and the ice threatening to crack.
To me, Californian landscape is made up of scorched yellow hillsides and small, olive green bushes crawling all over them. I felt very thirsty as I took in this view.