You can spend a night like tonight reading about Douglas Spaulding and perfect boyhood summers in Green Town.

Alternatively, you can spend the evening with Ylla and Spencer and so many others on the dried up shores of Mars’ oceans, in thousand year old tile cities with books of silver written in black and gold ink, and you can explore the world or destroy it.

The problem is thus:

When you read Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales, you are in both places, and many others: the stairs where Laurel and Hardy chased a piano, the jungle, a farmhouse in Salem, MA.

I’m not sure who or where I am right now, only that I am all of them and none of them.

I’m lying in a bed in Pennsylvania on a cool summer night, enjoying the embrace of he who I love, comfortably trapped between the sleepy moonlight of Green Town, and the red, dusty, beautiful tiled patios found only on the dry hills of Mars.