Living in New York made me realize something:

I don’t like streamlines. I don’t like modern.
Yes, they’re bitching on cars, machines, tech, etc., but buildings? Architecture? Stay away from that, bitches.
Give me the eves and gables, the railings that will rot out and give you splinters.
Give me the stairs that creak when you’re sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack.
Leave the swoops and dives of the roof, those peaks that are perfect for balancing on at midnight to watch the stars.
Keep your round corners and wide concrete balconies.
Present me with the nooks and crannies where creatures lurk at night, and where a good book waits during the day.
Design me a house that is a bitch to paint, with corners and angles that are fucking impossible to keep spotless.
Take away your rooms of only glass, and build me a room from an oak forest where I can get lost in a sea of ink.
Give me the attic that has all of your past tucked away in boxes, just waiting for that rainy day and trips down memory lane.
The creaks and moans of old pipes and joints are a soundtrack to be revered. Just listen and the house will tell you its story, if you’re silent enough.
Let the wind sigh through the windows and under the cracks of doors, chilling your feet and hands, pushing you closer to your lover and further under the covers.

Keep your steel, your avant garde, your glass and concrete and bleached, stale, white paint.
Give me your ancient, your worn, those long forgotten rambling wood homes that have more stories hidden in their walls than an entire library.
Let me find shelter beneath a roof that’s covered a thousand heads, supported by walls that have known sorrow and joy, birth and life, celebrations and mournings and parties and quiet evenings alone.
leave your future at the doorstep, and bring your history to me.
In the past is where we find inspiration. The future is only a distorted reflection.

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