A button painted onto the windowsill.
A bunch of old photos of old friends, looking ten to twenty years younger.
Why there are so many books and movies about old houses that hold secrets.
The necessity of slowing down, in order not to walk away without your money or hit your head so hard it leaves a dent.
There has been a turn toward autumn, and breeze, open windows, and cicadas remind me of Kansas, even though I am in Brooklyn.
I am in Brooklyn.
I still want to go to Coney Island. Lawrence, Kansas and Coney Island.
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