To reach the rich oasis you must cross the red-hot sand. Just beyond the desert, there is a golden city. It’s warm and dry there.

The wind carries dirt across my window and beams of light flash so bright I can just barely see the highway ahead. When I arrive, I realize the sun has followed me down the road, into the city.

The sun hits the roof of a cactus-lined house. Terracotta walls, a flash of pale orange, the house creeks above my head, its ceiling rumbles under the weight of warmth. The floorboards sing the most beautiful song.

It is a 15-minute walk to town from the house. Every street is lined with manicured lawns each adorned with carefully-placed ornaments. Couples on bikes wave ‘hello’ as I pass. Men lounge in the pool, baking in the heat of the apex sun.

The hair on my arms is singed and my browbone is damp. But I let the beads roll down my face.

Along the boulevard, shops are filled with tchotchkes and knickknacks— reminders of HERE for when you head back THERE. Vacationers litter the street and begin their long day of spending. After an exhausting visit to town, it’s natural to retire to the poolside for an afternoon rest. A refreshing, iced beverage and a nap prepare one for a sure-to-be wild evening.

In this town, the sky slowly drips from red to pink to yellow. As light blue darkens, the heat softens. The boulevard is flooded again and party-goers have a drink then two then three. As the moonlight softens, the crowd thins.

I return home and the house is almost quiet, its floorboards sing the most beautiful song. The sun sets, only to rise again on another red-hot day.