“Yup! Like it or not, Creed is back on top of the chart.” This is the caption that greeted me when I opened this month’s issue of my new favorite publication, The Cabbagetown Neighbor.

The highlight of Murrells Inlet is Brookgreen Gardens, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. It’s a 9,100 acre sculpture garden, replete with stone-carved mythic figures and lush with ancient live oaks, many older than the signing of the Constitution.

Here I’ve gathered songs that sound like lost highways—the endless, midnight ones that pass nothing but stardust. Our propulsion comes from music as much as an engine, as heartbeats propel us through perception and feeling, over empty streets with nothing in mind but falling in love and not getting arrested.

My house is haunted. There are rooms I cannot enter, and every night I speak with ghosts. We bicker in the shower and argue at the cutting board. Their forms vary, appearing sometimes as others and sometimes myself, come to resurrect some buried humiliation from my past.

I can't stop looking in the mirror. No longer can I stand my phone, so I've returned to the original screen. I watch my arms grow thinner, my eyes sink deeper, my bones reveal their contours like roots pushing up on the sidewalk.

I am going to melt into my walls. I can feel them sucking me in, Jumanji-style, dissolving me like white flour in an arid breeze. When it's safe to come out and I don't show up, they'll find a greasy silhouette, tombstone-shaped, just above my bed.