There was a night when the four walls couldn’t hold me, when listening to The Velvet Underground was too depressing. No tent, no car, no pillow, only my two hiking legs and a sleeping bag. Modern John Muir escaping the streets. I ambled my way to the base of a country mountain. 8pm dusk and me just sitting on the ground, my shadow fading into night. Long blades of grass, deer droppings, my new bedroom. Resting there I did nothing, no phone, no book, no flashlight. I wanted the hilly air to take me, absorb me, like only the earth can. There was no plan to sleep, there was no plan to not sleep, there was no plan. There was a her somewhere, out there, over there, without the zest of the World War I tune. But I had the full moon. I saw the moon and the moon saw me. I slept and woke and slept and woke, the moon so bright that I thought to turn it off, then realized where I was again and again. The evening went like that, blanketed in endless space, all the ground my mattress. By morning the her, the she, was a little less in me, nature said, let it be.