Home is where the pennies are left on the sidewalk. 

Where the neighbors next door helped us build the snowmen. 

The snow never stopped at home, just piled higher and higher until school was canceled.

Home is my city.

Not the one that never sleeps and has the flashy lights.

My home gets dark and quiet at night. 

A fog of dismal mysterium rolls into the black streets. 

Filling each alleyway and unknown corner.

Making its way up the old roads and stopping like a cured incurable disease at the suburbs.

There are no crickets to chirp and even the cats dont venture far from the number on their collar. 

Superstition turns on itself as they lift their paws- careful not to touch the haze licked windowpanes. 

Like a ticking clock dread moves through the wards, setting off car alarms and warning children to return home before the streetlights come on. 

But its not bad, not bad at all.  

My home holds a life force stronger than any other. 

The pavement is made of chalk and music and the people blend together with a certain intimacy you wouldnt expect.

Almost like the ghosts of their ancestors hold hands and laugh like old friends as they pass one another. 

Generations of baseball fans and beer lovers will huddle in crowded bars and await game results. 

Reminiscent cigarette butts from the roaring 20s are still stuffed into sidewalk cracks, far below the twists and curves of skyscraper architecture, perfected in the age of wonderful nonsense. 

Our reputation precedes us as we all fall  into midwest sterotypes,

But what’s wrong with being a polite idiot?

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