Idealizing a summer spent in a flyover town where we would drink the cheapest thing we could find and wander around. Ears to the ground like a stethoscope, eyes tracking overhead arcs. Either asleep in the sun or on my way to dance in the dark. You can find me in the headlines, darling, or somewhere between the margins. A minute after midnight, shining on the West Side highway, heading home. Fell out of love with familiar and I upended every plan. So I try not to cling too tightly to anything but family and friends. And if my Midwestern Minutes* only translate to seconds out here, then I wanna capitalize on the time we’re afforded and make a meaningful year. So can you separate out one from the other? We’ve all got the same amount of ground to cover? Or did the floor drop out, and nothing seems familiar? Nothing feels familiar. Nothing was the same.