waco, texas.

waco, texas.

it wasn’t as bad as everyone said it would be. it wasn’t bad at all.

we took a tour of Waco, the town where Alex and Conor grew up. where they rode their bikes in tandem along cracked sidewalks lined with writhing oaks, where they swam in neighborhood pools on scalding texas summer nights, where they looked into the sky and found stars and the moon, before heading inside to brush their teeth and say a prayer, and dream of cowboys and indians and the mountains of far-away.

or at least, this is what i would imagine they did. as the lives of those in Waco seem profusely innocent. the glass in Waco isn’t necessarily rose-colored, but it’s got one hell of a lovely hue.

and through this lovely lens, i see birds, cow birds, loud like the jungle perched on wires and scaffolding, a cacophony of beaks and bills and black feathers.

somewhere in the distance, a red neon sign glows from the top of the tallest building.

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we walk across a vacant parking lot in a dismal downtown, lit too perfetly by streetlights. and an old bridge spans across a slow river and we gaze at the pinks and purples of the end of this day. stiff statues of longhorns line the river. we imagine what it must have been like when the longhorns were alive, heads swaying like a herd of drunken men, edging their way to the banks of the muddy river to wet their lips and wash away the grit and sand of the texas desert.

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