The night I drove into my hometown, I'd lost an extra hour navigating detours through bombed-out historic districts punctuated by mysteriously glowing chandeliers in long-shuttered music halls, classically "shitty" pizza I'd kill a kitten for on most days, and eddies off the Ohio upon which bobbed decommissioned stern-wheelers repurposed into houseboats, lit in a magic hour that comes freakish early in the mountains.

Time is something I feel I have more of, when I’m home. So I'm more late, always.