“That night as I lay in bed, a June storm rolled in over town and it thundered loudly, sharp cracks like a series of detonations mingled with resonant booms above me, echoing again and again and again. Soon after came the rushing noise of thick, fast rain outside. I remembered the great winds of my childhood, remembered waking up in the morning to see that branches had fallen all over the street. I remembered the enchanted stillness that came before the twister or the tempest, as if the whole earth were holding its breath, and the eerie green color that tinged the sky. I remembered the immensity of the world.”
— Siri Hustvedt
from — The Summer Without Men
native to the place 
