I’m writing this from New South Wales, my time in Australia gracefully decrescendoing as I prepare for the hipster mosh pit that is Los Angeles.

I’m happy to be wrapping up my time here in Orange as opposed to Sydney - there’s something about looking to the Northwest, every immaginable star in an unspoiled sky patiently shimmering, and realizing there’s nothing resembling civilization for about two and a half thousand miles. There’s an impossible vastness to Australia, impenetrable and entrancing, and knowing I’ve barely scratched the surface irks me. But I’ll be back, sooner rather than later.

As I write this, I’m glancing at my guitar, leaning in its beleaguered flight case against the unlit fireplace. Miraculously, that hunk of wood’s taken me around the world more times than I’d ever dreamed, and unlocked doors I didn’t know were there to be opened.

So, when Ryan “Bear” Drozd greets me at LAX, I’ll be sure to give him an awkwardly enthusiastic hug, thank him for being the best tour manager in the land and, when he regards me incredulously and asks whether or not I’m ok, I think I’ll perform a jig.