At a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina. The only trace of civilization is a gas station that has a truncated version of a Subway sandwich shop that you’d have to walk for three hours down a steep road made of little blue rocks to get to. The houses here are spread out by several acres, all of them, and besides a couple parked cars and pick-up trucks the residents seem very comfortable setting their own leisurely pace in the slow waddle towards the neolithic revolution; there are spacious pens with donkeys and horses and fields with cows. The road periodically has “NO TRESPASSING” signs posted on trees next to what look like untouched woods that I guess function as driveways. They have blue spruces with needles coming off the branches; the younger ones are wholly blue while the senior spruces have blue on the tips and…