I found a place that reminds me of the places I’ve never been. The ivy says “it’s okay” while the ac unit trickles with melting. The heat is what I always thought would happen, and the secret stucco is someone’s home, the place they read about Rembrandt, and the place they drink their coffee. I know it’s not because everyone else does it, but it does something to the lump in me. It shrinks it, calms it, sings it to sleep. The new walls that turn in on itself and the soft cycles of fountains made by man to just enjoy it, and it makes me feel okay that I haven’t made art that thousands haven’t enjoyed yet, even if there never is a yet because there are things I will never see. And only something that lives a dual life, two worlds inside her, could be okay with this.