I’m starting to love walking because of the characters of homes I pass. Some of them are clearly composed of different eras of adjustment, becoming a sort of weird frankenstein patchwork building. stop to try and solve its puzzles of “when?”s and “why?”s. but there are also original grannies of architecture with full rusty embezzled bars and peeled paint crowning, still sheltering families. How this street may have looked when this home was in its prime, with all its neighbors now either gone or formed into patchwork. These homes stand as history and character, and the people who live in it still appreciate them (we’re hoping). Although you are not in full flawless glory as you were before in 1903 — you’re still standing. sometimes when I pass these particular homes, I feel like I should say Hi with a smile. Like you would to a respected grandmother or grandfather.

cement beasts softly wading for the moment your hand slips out an innocent glove for warmth (as it leaves through trembling cheekbones)