A new western day has dawned. The sun has already run past ineffective invisible fences, like a dog with its own conceptions of the property it guards. The end of one old road only means the subsequent buildup of another. Western pilgrimages run in my blood. I come from those who pushed themselves out and out, westward and westward, either running away from or actively seeking something, which ultimately grants a similar behavioral inheritance. Oh Americans, we who always seem driven to escape the life we’ve been given...to find a frontier to tame or resemble. And even if the day comes when all frontiers have been reduced to abstractions, I will still write words meant to function as a kind of adapted covered wagon, carrying ideas or images into as-yet-unsettled imaginations.