I love this sweater from RRL because it's fucking perfect. It's mended and faded and beat up just enough. It just feels like it's got Dust Bowl on it. I just want to wear this sweater with a bunch of tarnished gold bracelets, an old felt hat and a photographer friend who can really capture the particular type of 1890s ennui that I'm channeling. It's the kind of ennui that can only come after reflecting upon a dying way of life, a life too brutal and antiquated to survive the railroad. For some, the steam engine speaks of progress and of civilization. But for me and my faded indigo sweater, the conductor only signals the death of wildness and exploration.