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So, what's the trade-off?
Brock lives in his element; glorious private seclusion. Every morning when he wakes up and begins his rounds, he can look up to the sky and see literally forever as the clouds of The Milky Way shimmers throughout every single star in the Northern Hemisphere. In the winter, every step hears the crunch of ice and snow and every breath is cold and frigid as he goes to the barn to check on his livestock and calving cows. In the summers, Brock whistles a mindless tune to make the northern lights of aurora borealis dance in the sky, as told to him by local aboriginal legend. He drives ninety down the never ending gravel roads, whirling dust behind his truck past the endless tapestry of planted fields of corn, barley, wheat, lentils and every seed that feeds the entirety of the world over. Every infrequent car he meets, he slows down and tucks to the side to allow them to pass with nothing but a small wave from his hands to say hello and thank each other for the safe courtesy.
Every night, he hears either soft howling wind of the frozen winters or the croaking frogs and chirping crickets down by the sloughs and gentle breezes through his elm trees carrying with it the aroma of dew covered grass. Tomorrow morning, he is getting up early to go hunting for moose or white-tailed antelope, or to take his gun to scare and shoot off coyotes and other varmints that dare disturb his homestead. As of right now, he's polishing off a beer and cracking open another one and getting ready to settle into the hot tub with Sable and laugh with her about old Eddie Guerrero stories well into the morning which happens to bid welcome to Brock every single day with the most beautiful sunrises on this earth; a land of living skies is where Lesnar calls his home.
