I want to be where the weather doesn’t remind me of the muggy afternoons spent commuting back home from school, neuralgic heat spiraling dangerously up from the tarmac so that the walk becomes a maze. I want to breathe – not inhale this cacophony of adrenalized atoms, minute cataclysms sometimes riddled with the asphyxiating weight of moisture. I want to be where I don’t see the landscape singed by the rising sun five days out of seven, drab cityscape uniformly desaturated – habitable, still, but only through habit wrought by an iron fist. I don’t want to find my dreams shrouded in haze; I could do without the cars, cars, cars – the cars and their bad drivers.
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