What balmy skeleton trees stand sentinel, suburban vintage charm overlaid by cigarette-clouds & their cousin: there is a fog-wash against the trees and in my mind's eye I see the house I will one day inhabit, latticed windows and textured curtains, outfitted with laughing residents and one quiet future. Perhaps he will sit in the corner with one leg crossed over the other as he reads, something with weight, as autumn creeps through those latticed windows to flutter against those textured curtains and ruffle a page from those fingertips. I can smell the dust forming on my wishes, albums stacked on my memories. Were that the grey sky of this daydream were real.