But Soft

How strange it is; you step into that little box and emerge in another world entirely. Escape the clichéd bottleneck highway and drive down a wild canyon at sunset, watching the pinks and purples wash across unending sky and dive into a quiet ocean. In the early morning, colder than you thought palm trees would allow, smile at strangers and wave cautiously at gracious drivers; my brusque New York energy stubs its edges against California sunshine but it only makes you appreciate the grit of your veins more. It is too pleasant here, you hear yourself say in your head, what art could they possibly accomplish? You miss dirty Brighton Beach and noisy Second Avenue; you miss the rattle of radiators and 4 am street corner arguments beneath your window; you miss impatient cashiers, seamless transit currents and skin that doesn't all look like your own. They say everybody moves to the West Coast eventually, but I don't know. This pleasant beach breeze looks like a postcard.

And in the end there's no place like home.