I would rather have spent the evening tangled under the quilt, telling stories and secrets and jumping at the thunder. It seemed a shame to burst through a space that had been so exquisitely constructed.
I have been thinking a lot about ghost towns lately, settlements built in boom time and filled with all the hopes of a bunch of people trying to make themselves into something they weren't already. More specifically, I've been thinking about the moment when that hope turns, when all that can be extracted from that world has been extracted, and the people start to drift away. Even more specifically, I've been wondering about the first person to leave what is destined to become a ghost town. I think that those people must be standing in the way of winds different from the winds felt by everyone else, winds that let them know when upward and onward is the way to drift.
Everyone else goes after that, slowly, in clumps, and eventually all that's left are a bunch of walls and maybe some tumbleweed. And soon, not even that.
The other day I met a cat with a tag that said, "I'm not lost, just friendly." I am thinking of getting one for myself.
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