I was riding on a train from Wisconsin to Glaier National Park in Montana, when the Land Line series began. I was sitting in the viewing car with a sketchbook in my lap, a marker gliding across each page as the landscape unraveled and rushed by in front of me. The horizon line only ends when you blink, or when you look through it to the reflection of a fellow passenger whose stare is still keeping track, validating the space passed through. I learned to let details grow blurry, to settle my gaze and let all the things passing through it create a single ebb and flow of land and sky, the line between them reminding me of the glass separating me from this world outside of the train. Later in the trip, the sketchbook got wet and ink bled to tinge some of the pieces with toxic stains and organic bloom.