Settle me down in a place where the mountains and the ocean could concievably meet for lunch. A place where the clouds cry and the concrete provides a immovable should to cry on.

Because once upon a time there was a girl who lived in a town which fooled her into think that it was profound and could provide her with the experience she needed to become great. However it turned out that this town, and perhaps many of the people in it, were miserable, flat imitations.

It's shoreline was bleak, and backed with the empty shells of homes whose owners were far too important to live in them. The university which she had thought she had fallen in love with was nothing more than several bricks rooted in swamp. And the community was riddled with pretension and malice. Even the Spanish moss, which the girl had thought to be most romantic, now seemed to be dying in the trees.

It's true that the girl was writing, and reading, and researching -- but if 'home' felt as though it were suffocating her, snuffing out the pieces of her which she loved the most, does it really much matter?