I boarded the plane to Idaho listening to jazz and returned listening to Phoebe Bridgers. A progression led by the realization that "home" felt different this time around. It was a feeling that the works of Etta James or Louis Armstrong could not speak to. No, for this, I needed the sounds of Phoebe crying "the end is here" to pair with the internalization that the end of "home" as I once knew it really was here.