This is the first time I have ever been completely okay with listening to Yankee Foxtrot Hotel.  

I feel like it sounds like home, something unfamiliar to me today, yesterday, last week.  I have been happily chiming praise of my living situation lately, calling it home.  Home is who you surround yourself with, who you love, I said.  I was a holiday special.  Today, night driving down misty streets with one of said friends, I lost my idea of home during a long silence.  While I shifted down for a sharp corner, I realized that at this moment I am between homes.  Between my family, who I now find I can’t stand after an evening, and where I live now.  My room almost frustrates me now, it’s smaller than I remember it, and I want change.  I’m tired of the forced laughter I hear in the halls, and I remember why I spent less time here before.  But the circle that declares who I want to spend time with is smaller lately, and it should worry me.  I’m tired of wondering what I should do, when I should run, stay.  My friends are good here, but I’m tired of wondering who I can trust.  Tired of reasoning.  Tired of telling myself I came here to learn.  Tired of everything but driving away.  

It’s Wilco