Home is where the heart is. Or something like that.

LT G makes a pit stop and goes. Back. Out. There.

Things aren’t right here, anymore. Or maybe we’re the ones who aren’t right, anymore. I don’t know. Either way, it’s time to go. Time to go back out there. Where the Wild Things Are. Where the paranoia is justified. Where we now know comfort. Where we ride and die and die to ride and ride to die like every scout before us intent on making his way home or making his way to Fiddler’s Green, and no other options exist. Where we fixate on an edge we can’t describe or even prove exists, but feel every time we leave the wire because it sends our senses spinning into a poisonous clarity only the transcendent and reckless drug addicts should ever have to comprehend. We don’t do it for the thrills, though. And we don’t do it for our country, either. Not like we thought we would. We do it because we’re doing it and it seems like we’ve always been doing it so we will continue to do it for the same reason. Only the simplicity of that statement matters. We continue our movement back out there. Where we belong.

Way to channel Paul Baumer. I think I'm beginning to worry about the LT. Well, at least his mom knows what's on his mind. I guess that's something.

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