Mornings quiet and fresh I can't tell where I am. There's the same peace from getting up and weeding wet grasses, the same fear of going somewhere alone, the longing for waking up in the mountains, or affording coffee every morning. and then there's Girard where I slip back decades and see shadows of men in coordinated suits and soulful ladies swishing down past children with jump-ropes and hula hoops and it's all simple and idealized but it sure feels like a paradise frozen in time. and maybe lost altogether. I wonder how grown up I am from the greenhouse, from bumblebee where we were all so infatuated with each other and seeing the world through each story and endearing every mannerism in people and rattling of floorboards with it's Own Special Truth and thin socks and weird light fixtures and rice.