I moved to Washington DC when I was 24 so I could see what wilderness didn't look like. On the night before I moved I sat with my mom in our loft in our cabin on our 20 acres of dry pine canyon and we hand stitched my new slacks to the right length. I was sick of those woods and of the soft, warm light and wood smoke feeling of that cabin. The marble columns smirked at me in DC. They knew I thought I wanted it but they knew I didn't. Then I found a thing in the morning in the bedroom of a friend I thought was a friend. The humid thick air smirked. It knew I thought he was my friend but it knew he was my person. His bedroom was always deafening with some hot new song, heavy with air, blinding where the shadows had been, black where they landed. When he moved I looked at the room and it smirked because it knew I thought it was just a room but it knew it had been my wilderness.