Sometimes I dream of places far away. I have many hopes of seeing so many places. I want to see the sandhills of Nebraska, the gauchos of Uruguay, the pretty little houses in jungle mountains of Indonessia. I want to stand at the top of the Translyvanian Alps and sit on the porch of a farmhouse in Illinois. I want to ride horses through the hills of Montana and ride a boat through mangroves in Guatamala. I want to eat cow with the Massai and drink strong tea with the Russians.
But here I sit on a couch in my living room in Louisville, KY, staring at a screen, typing words.
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