I could navigate C-470 with a blindfold, that’s how familiar I feel with Colorado’s roadways. I could identify the time of day in Colorado, judging by the sun’s radiance behind the clouds as it slips behind the hogback. I could smell my way to the valley, I could taste my way home with Simon and Garfunkel harmonizing through my speakers something about being homeward bound. There’s nothing like that lamppost at the end of the cul-de-sac where I used to watch snow fall into the Colorado dark. There’s nothing like watching Blake Collins unwrap his latest injury with Starbucks Earl Grey in his left hand, and feeling sudden complacency with the world. There’s nothing like collapsing into a bed that saw all of my dreams, and held me tightly through them.