Through the night, the train passes across the deserts of Arizona and California, stopping briefly at Barstow. When I wake up to the sight of the sun slowly rising, I see a familiar sight. The rocky yellowed desert hills making way into rows of palm trees and identical looking suburban neighborhoods.
It's been three years since I left but the memories of high school and college start flooding back. Southland. Home. (Or one of the many homes for someone who moves around as much as me.)