He stepped out onto his darkly lit porch, the humble panoply of bricks that plagued his barefoot childhood, the rigidity and conductivity being the primary concern for the child. After crossing the Valley of Death, i.e. the road dissecting the two halves of Kaspar Street; A Tree City; USA, with naked toes and soles, post-playdate with kids on the other side. The hot heat always elicited a jump from the child when he simply wanted the air-conditioned sanctuary of the foyer, prandial promise pervading the air; the fenestral policy of this household is pretty loose.
Abrasive textures less-than-cushioned his leaping fall.
As if this wasn't enough of a gauntlet itself, the local hornet population had a habit of bombsheltering in the ceiling-situated porch lamp above the brick plateau, centering their hives around the solar-like incandescent bulb. His mother once had a paranoid obsession with Africanized bees and ergo, this embassy was a source of great trepidation in the boy. No one has ever so quickly opened a door as young himself trying to escape the heat, roughness and insectuous cells of Halcyon. Now he is traversing the gauntlet in reverse toward decidedly greener pastures.
Can’t repeat the past?
Of course you can.
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