the street that forgot its own variation
I was walking down Alameda, but the buildings were all the same — white, with the same kind of window frames, the same kind of doorbell. No one was home. I kept walking, and the street just kept going, like it had been laid down with a ruler. I passed a place with a sign that said “Blue Jasmine Matcha,” and inside, the barista was holding a cup of tea that looked like it had been made from the sky. I didn’t know why I was ...