In the morning I get on the bike and ride to the desert. Broken Hill. Motorcycle, sketchbook, ink.

You don't get fast answers out there. You sit. You wait. You listen. You also see the scars, the attempts to make that country into a wheat crop or a grazing paddock or a timber lot, the madness of thinking any of it would hold. The land doesn't care. It says no matter what you do, I'm still here…