Snow trucks and all

I'd wake up in the middle of the nights mistaking with full conviction that I were in Boston, a city I believe for a fact would never crumble under any circumstances. I'd hear the sound of the snow trucks and find comfort in knowing it had snowed after all. Strangely enough, Shanghai isn't the sort of city you'd confuse for any other city, with its unique lot of people, how the streets tasted like, the way the air felt on the hair of your skin. A little while ago, T wanted to believe it had been San Francisco. I'd want it to be Boston any night.