The place where I live is stunning. It isn’t modern. It’s old beauty, sometimes broken beauty. Buildings that have stories inside them. Stories that are covered with flaking paint and sheet metal where brick once was. The rolling hills and farms that mark those hills like a patchwork quilt only enhance that beauty. The traffic here does not exist because the beauty is an old beauty. Like two old lovers who eat dinner together in the silent confidence of a love that has endured the harsh winters ...