This is a long, deep hug to the earth and the feeling of bare feet on soft moss and the privacy of a thick grove of pines and the excitement of finding a patch of golden chantarelles and the appreciation of seeing oldfields turning back to deep, dark forests and the puckering taste of a feral apple and the surprise of finding a once-dry place flooded because the beavers moved back in and the anchoring of a walnut tree growing from a tomb marked with my own name all while the fever-dream-machine churns onward, wretching the gut, impossible to ignore for more than an exposure or two on a sheet of film that in all its 20 years had never once seen daylight.