Sometimes I reminisce about places I used to live. Maybe you do too. The older I get, the more it happens: For no reason, I’ll just start thinking about the house I grew up in, or my college dorm room, or my first apartment, where Stephen King would drop in for a beer. This evening, I was sitting back in a soft chair after a long day of whatever, just looking around at the walls of my study. I have a lot of books and some paintings. Over the years, the books have become more like paintings in that I don’t so much read them anymore as just enjoy their company. Most of them have been with me for many years. At times circumstances were such that we were forced to dwell apart. Perhaps they too recollect their sojourns.