The day was a wonderful wonderful escape for me, needing to run away from reality for a few brief hours. I went on private "business" to look and learn and experience. I didn't get answers, but I got release.

Chicago was our destination, last semester, when the life that fell apart and I thought I recovered fell apart again. So i ran away for a day, my love and I ran away.

Just a day trip, a student group at the school offered a cheap shuttle up there one particular weekend, and we jumped at it. I to explore the past and he the present and the city herself.

Only two hours away, three at most, but it felt different, the wind felt cleaner, more alive, and I'm still not sure why but it did. We wandered the city for hours, drinking it in, devouring every bit of the life there. He took photos of the "legendary" rock and roll McDonalds and tall buildings from beneath them. We played on the beach, in the sand, and I joyfully chased a Shetland sheepdog puppy and raced her for her tennis ball. We wandered the shops and odds and ends and laughed and talked. We walked through parks and museums and tunnels and breathed the release that only temporarily running away can yield.

It was the proverbial breath of fresh air I needed to save from drowning in my own mind.

But probably one of the most unique things I remember about those city streets was a bizarre art exhibit. Much like the cow parade in Houston where I grew up, but this was couches and chairs and furniture. Each decorated and designed by an artist, or aspiring artist, or school, or club or whoever wanted to. Furniture, mostly cement to withstand the elements, scattered about the city. My favorite was a couch cast in cement and covered in multicolored dragon tears, a mosaic of color and texture and pattern and randomness. I sat in it a long time and smiled softly. And at that moment, in that freedom, all I wanted was to sit in that teary couch forever and ever and always. I wanted to plead to the city, do you mind if I crash on yr stained glass couch for, like, ever?

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