If I have a voice, it’s in Boston. Where it’s cold. Where there’s almost always a reason to cozy up under a blanket in front of a fire. Where it’s old, musty, and dusted with history. Where ghosts walk the streets. Where people go to ground themselves. Tucked away from the rest of the country. Where coffee is warm and oysters are chilled. Where the wind whips in from the harbor, making you remember things you have no business remembering. White sails. Sturdy ships. Second-hand dinghys. Blue coats. Red collars, standing up against the gusts. You see it, too, don’t you?
It’s impossible not to. Here, under the intelligent eye of Boston.