... Maybe if I was a better writer I would take note of my neighbor, an older man with a bright red shirt on that fit snuggly over his large belly, out on the front porch talking on the phone across the street. Maybe if I was a better writer I would wonder about his life, wonder why he lives in a yellow house in this dinky little town. Mayber if I truly cared, I would bake some cookies and wander across the street and introduce myself. But I don't. I don't belong to this little town and don't want to belong. I feel like I made for bigger things. For better things. As I run through the streets I smile at the dad teaching his kid baseball and observe another neighbor talking to the one cop in the town. This town has my permanent address, but nothing about it feels permanent. It is as if I am living in someone else's life. I have no desire for this life, the life lived in a small Midwestern town. As I run, I run towards the future, towards the quaint city and life I see myself living. I picture myself on the same run, but within that future life, where I am successful and happy. It is this dream that I picture as I cool down and pet my cat. Before bed, I read in my current novel. This one is about Turkey and lands far away. Right before sleep takes me away, I imagine my city and the life that is about to happen.