The Shape Of Tomorrow
I’m here. Boulder. The mountains are doing that thing they do at dusk where they turn purple for about fifteen minutes and make you forget every bad decision you’ve made in the last six months. It’s a hell of a trick. One minute your shoulders feel like they’ve been beaten with a ball-peen hammer, the next you’re standing there staring at a ridgeline like some wide-eyed tourist who’s never seen dirt rise above sea level. Then the sun disappears, reality comes back, and you remember you can barely lift your arms above your shoulders. Moving a house is hard. Moving …
