The quiet country nestles itself into your bloodstream. You go on long runs, learn how to use power tools in an unwieldy garden, bake for the neighbors, and spend your evenings on the porch under the quiet stretch of the Milky Way. It is strange how quickly you adapt to space, stretch your limbs and your lungs across the rolling fields, make plans about a life so different than what happens in your Manhattan shoebox. You think there is some sort of secret in the desert, an answer nestled between the folds of the mountainside, and you wonder how long you would have to stay out here to find it.
By morning, the frost has arrived for the season. It seems impossible under the scorching midday sun, but that doesn't make it any less true. There's something in religions that says your god sees you even when you don't see them, but I think this is what they meaning. Every state is fleeting, every moment will pass, this one, too.
The point is what you make of
how you remember it.
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