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Think you are escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.

James Joyce

My town has eyes as deep as the Atlantic. When the sun sometimes blinks, the eyes of the town turn into chestnut doggies, running and enjoying the streets without rain.

The town likes to travel by bike or glides on the skateboard. Then the wind brushes its knee through the hole in the jeans. My town loves to get to the empty beach. Its sneakers and bike are getting stuck in seaweed, but it is quite a unique experience and only one trail to finally touch the infinity.

In autumn, winter, spring, or summer, the town wraps its neck in various scarves. Last days it has been enjoying the woolen and grey one bought in Dunnes on Eyre Street. The town’s hair is like the branches of tall trees, brown or orange, and constantly peeks into the cosmos.

The heart of town is a door in diverse colours: warm yellow, cloudy blue, aquamarine, maroon, black, or khaki. You can knock them with beautiful knockers, look through the slots on letters, or through the stained glass windows. You can notice something special, like a rainbow made from wool with pompoms.

The thoughts of the town are like a river. White and rough on the way to the ocean, calmer and transparent closer to the lake. This morning the town had a taste of distance. But, then change its style to a croissant with almond filling. Imperfect town, but dearer and dearer to me.

What do you think about such a poetic portrait of the town? How do you feel about your own town or place?