Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day senses -- those are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.

The pace of life feels morally dangerous to me.

Things you did. Things you never did. Things you dreamed. After a long time they run together.

I'm intrigued by how ordinary behavior exists so close beside its opposite.

America beats on you so hard the whole time. You are constantly being pummeled by other people's rights and their sense of patriotism.

Maybe I'm a serial regional writer. First here, then there, across the map.

Things happen when people are not where they belong, and the world moves forward and back by that principle.