The south is how I remember it--a summer slow, sweet, sticky. The air is adorned with honeysuckle, seasoned with cicadas, and so syrupy you get sticky just from walking to your mailbox. For whatever reason, I was blind to its romantic, idyllic charms before, the still, slow evenings and strangers who will stop to share their stories with you. I know that my leaving was an important part of this process-I needed to leave to go home, just as much as I needed to leave to get away.
--Journal entry, 12 June 2016