there's a place, somewhere south, where the sky is blue, and the breeze is warm. where the grass is soft and the dew is gone by the time we get outside. the houses smell like old libraries, and everything is wooden, and creaky. at night the wind raises goosebumps on your bare arms and you get a sweater, just a sweater. and you sit a little closer. you have a porch, a real porch, with a hanging potted plant, and a real screen door that won't close all the way and bangs shut every time you let go of it, and there's a scent in the air, all the time, of something fresh and calm, of something lost in the city, unattainable by me.
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