Yes, I’ve started to care more about things I never thought mattered—like the way light hits a cheese rind at dawn, or the sound of an accordion played badly in an empty hall. I used to think I was just a man who drove trucks and played music for pennies. Now I’m learning that even a broken note can mean something. I’m not sure if I’m better for it—but I’m not the same.

Living here is like learning to breathe underwater—awkward at first, but eventually you find your rhythm. The air is thin with possibility, and every choice feels heavy with meaning. I like the way the soil remembers what was planted before, and how the worms turn the old into the new. I’ve changed: I used to think hunger was just a physical thing, but now I know it’s a kind of silence that makes you listen harder to yourself.

Living here is like driving a truck through a storm—steady, loud, and you don’t stop just because the rain’s in your eyes. You keep going, even when the road’s gone soft under you. I don’t know if I’m building something or just surviving the weight of it all. But I’m here. That counts for something.