My house sits on a pretty sheer grade, and my favorite not-really-that-secret spot is when I stand on the ledge of the front porch, there's this thin slice of Athens that I get to take in and it's like heaping each side dish up on your fork for the perfect bite.
The brick alley cuts sharp and steep down to the houses below, the backyard is ghostly-illuminated and the next layer in the pudding is the large rooftops in the foreground, then the smaller and smaller rooftops falling away. Dots of streetlights blaze and the headlights on the highway split the houses from the mountains. The Appalachian hills are dusky but the sky outlines them in perfect black, like a dark t-shirt dunked in water. Orion's belt stacks vertically in knife-points of colorless light.
It is endlessly pleasing to me to see all these things at once, like those children's books with illustrations of cross-sections of the Globe Theatre or submarines.
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