A Christmas Tree in July.

A Christmas Tree in July.

My city looks better at night, it always has. I live on its outskirts in a little house in a little parochial town, and without fail, every evening from my bedroom window, I gaze at its glittering lights which drape in all directions like a dressed Christmas tree. It reminds me of you: It’s beautiful, but only from afar. If you were to venture into its heart though, you’d find it’s arteries were congested, even blocked to arrest. Clogged with pressure-inducing people choking with too much chatter, too much much busy, too much emptiness, too much pounding the pavement, searching; going this way and that, but nowhere in particular. Or so it seems? It’s not for me—the city and it’s bright lights and shiny, drab folk—I prefer the lanes and byways shrouded with trees, setback and watching from a distance. I’ve been distant all my life though, and like the city, I’m beautiful, but only from afar.