I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. I was from a family of six, and at a very young age I became aware of the transient spirit that lived inside my midwest bones. I left for Los Angeles the same day I graduated college. I remember packing all of my belongings in the back of my four door Volkswagen Jetta and realizing I only really owned books. These writers were my best friends, and it felt alright. I arrived in Los Angeles at the end of May, frothing at the mouth for west coast weather. I pulled up to El Porto beach and walked west from my car to put my feet in the Pacific Ocean for the first time. It meant something to me to stop and appreciate that I had been inside both bodies of water that surround the country I live in. One thing felt vaguely familiar as I was encapsulated in this moment, there was a cool wet blanket that hugged me as the water dance across the tops of my feet. Oh, June gloom, you welcomed me to California and reminded me of home. Over the next eight years, I migrated between Los Angeles and New York. Sometimes for work, sometimes for love. My most recent move ripped me up and out of the Lower East Side and planted me in the foreign territory of Southampton. Nothing felt familiar or even vaguely relatable except the weather. That same cool wet blanket held me on those long island bays. I realized not only do I have an affinity for overcast skies but also that it is quite possible that home is something you gradually build inside yourself and carry with you where ever you go. All things in life are interconnected; death, love, hurt, despair, elation, decay, passion, tragedy. The only constant is you.