There are no walls, only doorways within this satchel on the backseat. I live my life out of a mixed laundry bag hung over my shoulder, pushed in the corner of a quiet , stark bedroom, a cozy cavern in a friend's home, nestled under my boyfriends bed. Home is the look in his eye, and the laughter generating between a blond haired green eyed girl who has shared the magic of adolescence and family dysfunction for five years. Home is where my footsteps lead me, where the gas mileages add up to, and nowhere. I am a traveler. I am a nomad that gathers dust on the windshield. I can polish her up and dress her down, she is my home. I am my own comfort, my only guarantee. The horizon is not my destination, discovery of a place long forgotten behind the road and under my mind a mini memory of a wide eyed four year old with chopped bangs hiding behind the living room door straining towards hissed whispers and the spark of something breaking hanging in the air is what i run from.