I walked into what I remember was a stark white room, although looking back, there were hints of color. Patterned borders, muted tile and of course the indistinguishable blue scrubs.

I found a corner of my room that feels new and quiet.

Banjos fill my life alongside hissing radiators. They even play into my dreams some nights, waking me up to think they're playing just for me.

I'm writing this as I drive through the awesome rock formations that wave to us as we wind through Arizona, reveling in the reds and oranges that paint them. It's funny to think only 4 hours ago, Bri and I were sitting in the Las Vegas police station filing a report on luggage + camping supplies that were stolen from the roof of our car — cut straps, dusty footprints and all.

I woke up before the sun this morning with a pounding in my chest. It wasn’t from anxiety or fear, but something softer. Words whirled around my head and in and out of my ears like dancing pixies and I listened. They wanted me to write.

This morning I woke up to the sounds of little kids on their way to school — their British accents joining in a playful schoolyard chant. Just now, the most dog-like of black and white cats paws at me to open the shades so he can jump up on the sill and watch the world outside, the sound of his tail up against the rope from the blinds softly tapping against the radiator beneath him.