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About

Creator. Explorer. Storyteller. Technologist. Father. Human.

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There’s something quiet here. An old barn tucked behind wild yellow flowers, catching the afternoon light. No grandeur, just a kind of softness that lives in forgotten places— where time slows, and everything hums with the calm of being l
Out here, the road isn’t just asphalt and paint. It’s a thread pulling you through hills that breathe with the wind, curving toward places you can’t quite see yet. Sometimes the best parts of a journey are the ones that haven’
Out near Crockett, where the hills lean toward the bay and the wind feels older than the roads. I found this tree, standing alone at the bend of a dusty trail, like it had been waiting through seasons, storms, and silence. There’s a kind of re
Golden hills, stretched under a sky that feels too wide to hold. Cattle graze in the distance, a tree casts its shadow like an old memory, and everything moves slow. These are the kinds of places that don’t ask for attention—they just wai
In Pattaya, I climbed the steps to Wat Phra Yai—Big Buddha Temple—where the gold glowed even under a moody sky. The staircase, guarded by serpentine nagas, felt like a passageway between worlds. There’s something about this place:
The sun dropped behind Mount Tam like a final bow, setting the whole sky on fire. The bay turned to glass, the hills to shadow, and for a moment it felt like the day held its breath. I’ve always loved sunsets like this—not just for the co
Out near Altamont Pass, the wind never really stops. These turbines stretch like sculptures across the hills—clean lines spinning in slow rhythm against the sky. There’s something oddly peaceful about it all. Mechanical, but not cold. Ord
Light and shadow playing across the hills like brushstrokes on a canvas. Each rise and fold tells its own quiet story—some lit, some hidden. And maybe that’s the lesson these hills keep offering: that beauty lives in the contrast. One sha
There’s a certain kind of quiet that lingers around old barns and forgotten fields. A silence that feels lived-in. These hills carry the weight of time—weathered wood, a single blooming tree, and the tilt of telephone poles long out of us
I keep coming back to this tree. Alone on the hillside, wind-shaped and weathered, but still standing—still reaching. There’s something about its form that feels like a gesture, like it’s leaning into the unknown with quiet defiance
Dry Creek Park in late light—golden, spare, and quiet in that way only California hills can be. These trails always slow me down. The dry grass hums in the breeze, the ridgelines cast long shadows, and it all feels like some forgotten dream&mda
The details we usually pass by—like these wild fennel blooms—can become something else entirely when the light hits right. I paused here, drawn in by how the golden tops caught the late sun, silhouetted against a sky that felt painted. So

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