There is a suitcase smell to everyday. And, the city has a glow of after life. The neat curvy highway and the neon street lights-apparitions from another birth in all their finery.
Did I get buried or did the streets and markets and people just woke up from the dust of a few centuries?
You don't mix tenses and then complain that past just looked through you, as if you didn't exist
Shoes: too muddy
Doorsteps: squeaky clean and too sure of their place in the world.
The lost will one day build a sail and will move to nowhere.
Carrying the impossibility of coming back as a souvenir- to put a halo of nostalgia on gone by, to brave the grey monotones of strange landscapes