Nostalgia
It tastes like cigarette smoke and sticky mornings waking up next to five other warm bodies. Your throat burning from the night before. It climbs into your limbs as you try to block out the morning sun. It's heatwaves rising off the tarmac as you hurtle down the highway, a mirage vanishing from under the wheels. It's many things. It feels like nothing, intangible, infinite. You could dip your fingers in it and feel lost, full, backward. It sounds like a reverbing echo, bouncing between your eardrums, tied in with dove song, and your favourite lullaby. You can go to sleep feeling it in the depth of your gut, sinking in it. Its everything and its emptiness all at once.
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