We have no palm trees. We have no beaches, no canyons, no reefs. No music festivals. Specialty coffees, vintage markets, gourmet burgers—we have none. We have miles of oaks that stretch to the sunset. Streets of warm stone that turns to dust in your hands. Air so dry it'll scratch your lungs. Wind so cold it'll cut your cheeks, and summers so hot the sun will burn your skin for weeks.
Fuck palm trees; this is home, and it's where I belong. Leave me here.