You can say whatever you want about liking a given location—there’s no place like home; a house is what you make of it; home is where the heart is—but I can’t say anything but that the air in some places is a being of many arms that knows what it likes to hold. My small town in Canada pinches sleeping pills so that everything glides by in a lull, a hazy dance where the steps don't really matter as long as they are close enough. Home may be sweet home, but sugar, especially that of this sickening variety, has never suited my palate. I long for a day when I can ride the oceans or glide on Ouranos’ cloak and find a place that isn’t a sweet home, but one that harbours batteries, electrifying the atmosphere and throwing long-forgotten spices into the clouds. I want to live in a place that doesn’t tie my legs to bars but instead encourages them to wander and grow thick callouses from dancing barefoot in green grass. My heart isn’t here, and I want to find out where it is.