The night lays like a blanket over the skin of the earth where the blue is something you wish you could taste. This is what it was like to teen in the suburbs — the shades of that sky resonated for those four summers where the foundations of the self were lain. Back further. The city — black were the winter nights where the radiator hissed cat like beneath an open window. Black was the night and by day my hair would freeze walking to school. The rats would surface when it rained. Memories are rising for no reason at all except to remind you that you were there and that those places are still there to draw up new wells of memories for new minds to remember. The code lengthens and solidifies — written to recall the traipsing length of your footfall beneath the wine blue of each and every night. Again and again the days cake like the sediments of a dried ocean.