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(Picture it: I’m in a small town on my porch at around 5 in the evening. It’s about 70 degrees and there are gentle winds blowing.) 
The occasional car passes down my street, but otherwise everything is silent.
During the day you can hear the chorus of birds chirping from the powerlines, and sometimes the wind gives a sigh through the trees or somebody’s front door closes.
The lady across the street comes home and asks how I’m doing. I say good, thanks, how’ve you been?
She nods and walks inside. I guess it was none of my business.
The wind blows a gentle breeze through my hair.
Church bells ring on Sundays and holidays, and flags wave hello to passersby from front porches and everything just seems so peaceful when you look at it from the outside.
But on the inside, words are thrown like knives at a circus and family dinners are accentuated by arguments and no eye contact and little kids sit out on the front porch because listening to the birds chirp is better than listening to mom and dad fighting again.
It’s five p.m. and a sense of loneliness washes over me.
I used to think I’d move to the city when I’m older, where cars are much more than occasional and you can’t hear the birds over the noise of drunken conversation and music from the party downstairs.
But sometimes I think I might miss this silence. 
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