It smells like dog poop, but, nonetheless, it smells of liberty. Begone the grey walls, the grey paper on which I wrote, the grey people and the grey knowledge! Begone. Welcometh me, on a patch of wild grass, with the poppies giggling before me, and the birds chattering enthusiastically around me. Even if it smells like dog poop.
I did not escape for the graffitti, or for the flying insects, or for the gardner who works the land, no, not for the colours, but for the joy of escaping routine's asphixiation. Welcometh dog poop, if it smells like liberty too.