Seems whatever year I lived lies here.
There must be more than this. Far more than my eyes can see.
Somewhere in some dusty legend. Somewhere on a map of elsewhere. There, and perhaps nowhere else.
Lands of gentle winds and cool rains. Places other than asphalt, broken green bottles, and an endless stream of cars and the litany of What About Me?
That place I can no longer step upon. That realm I see so vividly, in dream, in hope, in every falling star that I strain my sight through the corrosion of the night sky for.
That place. North of my beating heart.