There are hundreds of thousands of roads that you've traveled by. Asphalt and gravel and even through the grass in the country. Some roads you just have completely memorized. Even the car knows where it's going, and sometimes, you often find yourself driving home when you actually have no intentions of going there whatsoever. You're on autopilot. It feels familiar to you. In the neighborhood, there's a certain road you take that gets you to the swimming pool. There are warehouses on either side, rows of houses behind you, and even more warehouses in front, just laid out so you can get to where you want to go. There's a small hill you cross before you take your left towards the swimming pool. You cross it to go, you cross it to come back, and for the first time in years, you think about how familiar this feels to you. The three dents in the asphalt that make their presence known as the car skids over them. It's like skin, and you're feeling every ridge of skin that's underneath you. Every flaw and freckle, every dimple and bruise. They're road ridges. We don't seem to pay attention very often, but when we do, it feels like home. Because it is home.