I drove through the town I grew up in. It was just after two o’clock. The car was sounding like a car again. The town was the same. It was like I hadn’t left. I don’t know why the town should seem different. But I always expect it to. I suppose the shock is always in how things have stayed exactly the same as they were. There are the odd, superficial changes. Aren’t there always. But the place still feels how it always had. Busy, but with a complete lack of any direction. Perhaps I am truly am a product of my environment. Then I drove to a friend’s house. I had to pick up some of my belongings. While I was away, chasing the latest dream, they had kept them safe for me. I stopped at a garage to pick up a bottle of wine. It wasn’t much. I hoped that they would enjoy it. It was a good wine. I hoped that it would taste good. They greeted me with smiles and I packed up the car and before I knew it I was back on the road again. Back on the road wondering if I’d see them again. Back on the road where everything seemed the same. It has been people who have made life different. The signs point me back to more familiar surroundings. Close to the bustle. The busy, directionless patch of earth that I sprouted from. Through school, college, friends, women, sad jobs and finally, drink. The only difference in the town is in me. In my eyes. Outside, looking in. On a clear day.