Running the gauntlet of homesickness every vegetable comes from red earth, the haze over the city strange from ground-level. The word for fog is learned in doodled golden bridges.
Read MoreThey say there's no history, no soul. They speak of sand, breathe stale air, build grandiose testaments to its roses instead.
Read MoreI’ve rolled over, I’ve gone to the bathroom, I’ve daydreamed, drank water. Considering it’s about 10pm back home, I’m not sure why I’m awake.
Read MoreA big announcement, and some flippant words I might regret.
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