Sometimes my soul seeks the solitude of the woods; the consistency of the rushing river water. My mind is ecstatic with the buzzing neon of city lights, but my soul longs for the dark star-spangled cyclorama of the untarnished night sky that is only visible in areas adjacent to pastures of horses and fields of endangered ladyslippers and magnolia trees. LA pulls me towards it with promises whispered from the lips of a drug-addled wannabe model who desires to take me surfing at his secret spot and buy me vegan gyros; LA calls to me with its party culture and its true west, true sunsets, its glitz and its glamour which ends, inevitably, in red blood. NYC beckons me to dance with it, to open my mind to the vast amounts of knowledge and information streaming streetlight to streetlight, beggar to homeless woman, exhaling itself into the night air and infiltrating the psyche of every resident. Its busyness, its feverish rush to accomplish, to experience, and to witness the heartbeats and breaths of its citizens, the consistent buzz of activity, and a general air of endless, breathless possibilities of hanging out the sunroofs of limousines in transit bring me alive with wonder. ATL is raging with the sparkle of city lights and the hum of infinity. I come to her when all others turn me away and know that she will accept me into her lush green soundscape of natural wonder, beauty, and rock ‘n’ roll. The undead ghosts of Michael Stipe and Kevn Kinney hover over my head as I pluck strings and sing things in El Caballo Negro, cheers all around. I don’t fit in but I belong. As for where I’ll end up, I will follow my song.