A seemingly harmless buzz in the corner distracts me from my meditation over some thought of little significance. Upon the revelation that this buzz is actually my alarm and that my empty thought was a dream, I am sad to know that I must crawl out of the bed. The mundane routine of the day after day has grown heavy on my heart. Visions of driving past the place where I work linger on after I have slammed the car door shut. My voice reads the words on the pages aloud, but I don’t hear any of it. The questions spew from my lips on autopilot; their responses barely scratch the surface, but what does it really matter in the grand scheme of things. The solace of home got lost along the way, too. Thoreau had the right idea to leave when he realized he had created a worn path to his door step.