rampaging-poet

When we were young, we used to play with white sheets and pull them over the backs of chairs, until they puffed out in the center into a small fort. We would run inside, hidden under the light cover, where we believed we were safe. There never arose the question of what exactly we were hiding from; whether it was the shadows of our house, the people that we decided we didn't care for, or the fresh beam of sunlight streaming in through our curtains from the world outside. Of course, the world was not such a hostile place. It was only a dreamy town filled with happy people and slow moving cars, laughing children and boisterous teenagers, loving