I come from a town where the stop signs are purple, the children are inquisitive, and the music is pure. Melodic lines pursue me from the places I've come, with close harmonies, intricate rhythms, and beautiful women to sing them. My curls dance with the steel strings of my favorite guitar as I play on the corner by the coffee shop, but I barely notice; for I finger my favorite guitar pick necklace, remember the bow-tied boy who gave it to me. The corners of my lips turn up, remembering the bow-tied handsome boy who lives away from my purple stop sign town, where the children are inquisitive, and the music is pure.