I’m watching dusk wash across the city of Columbus, and I feel something. I sense it in the wind, and in the sound of tires on the wet street. I want to call it depth, but where does it stem from? I see a shine to the grey, and I feel a promise of sorts. Or a memory, sublime like what I used to feel. I remember when we drove through winter night, 2012, Tennessee. And back to me at 19, when she took me deep into West Virginia, and I had never seen roads that empty, narrow, and still. The world was new to me then, and I was in Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. Maybe I’ve held onto something, or maybe home is real. This is the power of association, yes, but also something concrete: the four seasons, the clean air, and the right amount of slow. I see it in people, in other pedestrians that notice when a driver is rude, and the shop owners who talk to me, and the Uber driver who asks about the celebrities out there in California. I know what it is about this place. The grounded sensibility, the color in the trees, and that familiar cold, taking me back, and keeping me awake.

I'm a writer, traveler, and professional pervert. Stay tuned for essays on sexuality, sex work, polyamory, and healing.

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