Atypically for The Mind of a Trevor, I’m writing this in my office, underscored by rider mowers, yipping pooches, and my hillbilly neighbors drag racing motorcycles. This is Tennessee, after all.

I love traveling more than anything, and I’m grateful my livelihood takes me to all corners of the world. Through travel, one can’t help but embrace the kaleidoscopic nature of things, and I’m a better creator and, I’d like to think anyway, less of a douchebag because of it. The last better part of a decade's been defined by hurriedly packed suitcases, airport Cinnabon and the attendant gastrointestinal discomfort, and meh-at-best guitar solos. I’m lucky.

I’ve worked hard at making Nashville feel like home, and I can say with pride that I no longer need the GPS to get around. Come mid-September, I’ll be away from Music City for the rest of the year, and as my neighbor Big Country’s drying his clothes with a leaf blower, a cheap cigar dangling from lips resembling weathered yams, I’m feeling an unfamiliar pang for a professional nomad - I’m going to miss this place.