There are still places, right, where children wear short pants and people tend to their flowerboxes?
My life can be marked with immersions in poetry. 10 was Dickinson; 12 was Plath; 13 was Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, DiPrima and there were others before these bay-dwellers and their pep talks about geese, femininity, freedom and fucking. I feel like I could show up on their doorsteps, hard-sided suitcase in hand and collapse into their hammocks and after they've restored my faith in things, generally, we could retire to some delicious pizza parlor where I would marvel at the way the wall of bottles gleaming in the sun (that's how they decorate those, right?).