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whisper farewell with tears in throat and fly with anxiety and excitement; escape one life to visit another here is a world that is quiet and calm (except at night or in the early morning; afternoon stillness is a deception, for at night comes the singing and the drums.) and the bells—oh, the bells. ceaseless chime from yonder tower over orange-tile rooftops. green shutters open over cobblestone streets with cafe tables and people walking, wind blows heat past into something not-quite reaching coolness. come with me to the garden and look out to the hills; they tower as mountains, nestled with houses like anthills in fields or beehives on branches i hate it here, says the beautiful girl with the rolling words. i want to visit your home think of the gray asphalt streets and the crooked stop signs the grass is always greener on the other side, the sky always a deeper shade of blue. sometimes i want to go home. marbles in feet and sweat between thighs, but oh, how are voices ring. there is difficulty in distance; and a sort of detachment from reality is this my life? is this my world? this is a liminal space that exists in the moment and will remain in photographs; across the waves, my family still slumbers as the noonday sun rises above my head. will i remember this when i return? will i forget the details—the smile of the barista, the stray cat crouched in the shade? will i forget the deafening wind in the microphones? i think i will not forget the hills, rolling and fantastical; at the very least, i will have the evidence saved for later viewing. at last visit, i painted this scene; i could not capture its essence. but evidence, i think, will remain in the deep pockets of my voice, and my song will linger in the corners of cathedrals.