The entire sky shimmers with a myriad of lights, casting a warm, ethereal glow across the horizon.

Each layer of color dances delicately, a captivating tapestry of twinkling stars and vibrant hues, giving the atmosphere an intimate, metaphysical quality.

The scene feels alive — it is alive — divine in its own right.

Thumbing past snapshots of hazily warm memories and songs in your as you sit on the shore, watching Bunny and Charles fight each other in the water.

The water laps over your bare feet — in between your toes and on your heels.

A raucous laughter echoed in the air, Henry’s lighter clicking, the gentle rustling of leaves in the trees.

You love this house — out in the country, surrounded by the Greek class. The air seems better here, warmer.

Francis, with his slender, ethereal figure with a choppy mane of fiery ginger hair glides into view, the soft glow of the setting sun catching the wisps of his hair as he moves.

With a cigarette delicately balanced between his lips, he plops down next to you.

“You’re thinking too hard.” He speaks, looking at you from the corner of his eye.