Whenever I'm asked for a distinct memory of my hometown, I immediately recall the feel of intense sunlight upon my shoulders. The choking effect of industrial curls and pirouettes blackens the baby-blue sky through gigantic copper-and-iron pipes withered with age. The air smells so different there: Oddly familiar and diluted, resembling the asphyxiating subway smell. Feels like how things used to be but there's something repulsive, offending and judging in its taste that I fail to grasp. The green of the lawns are as faded under the heavily tainted oxygen molecules and somehow I'm reminded of a bright yellow bicycle crushing the grass with brand new tires, its owner smiling with coffee stains on teeth. I cannot remember the question, but the answer rings clearly in my mind:

"We'll be seeing those blue skies again, you just look up. It's better if you do."