Stockholm, I had so nearly given up on you. Had scuffed the edges of my heart and lost its luster in the ever-growing piles of worry and discontent. Had hung your picture frame next to New York's and found your colors to fade, too fast.
But as I left his apartment in the Old Town, rolling a cigarette along busy cobblestoned alleys and navigating the bridge and the hills of the south, the slightest calm eased into my step. The streets were busy, the air was warm, the city was alive with people and music and life, at every corner lay opportunity in that last shred of golden dusk. There has to be hope in a city like that, there has to be potential within.
Stockholm, I am here now. I haven't the option to leave you, nor you the one of kicking me out. Stockholm, my dearest. Can't we please be friends?
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