Every so often, I get sick of basically everything. Walls become suffocating, routine is insufferable, and the city I live in wraps itself against the sky like a cage. So inevitably I duck away and find something to chase (warm faces, the light in autumn, half-formed schemes, etc.), run until I’m dizzy and lost and can’t remember whose couch I’m waking up on or why I crashed there. Weeks later, the sky bruises into swollen dusk, some familiar voice yells for me to come home so I run back into my bed once again, wondering if home is this place more than it is the feeling of staring at an unfamiliar timetable and noticing your heartbeat quicken.