Recently, there had been something pulling me back to the street where I lived as a child.

A street as unspectacular as it was peculiar.

Selin Street had the feel of a different world. peculiar. way. Not only do we have the same postbox and the same wooden window frames, but I swear

we even have the same type of flowers growing in our gardens.

Those little houses, painted in the same shade of dark ocean blue, have a very peculiar architecture to them.

They are all rather narrow, but reach up quite high to assure that there would always be enough space if more homes needed to be added to the neighborhood.

You would never expect such an awfully individual style being copied, but here they were. Twenty identical homes holding very non-identical

inhabitants. You would assume that all the pastel yellow-painted garages hold the same car as well.

But as far as I know, my parents were the only ones owning a vehicle.

Or at least, I'd never seen anyone else in one before.

Luckily, our street wasn't the only place for me to go, or maybe

I would have turned insane over the years. Our street was rather high up on a small hill overlooking the town where I went to school,

where we would buy our food and clothes and where dad would go to work.

I loved the cycle down to the town, feeling unstoppable with a wind in my back.

The way up home was always a drag however, especially as I had to count not to miss our home

when I pulled into our street.

It was the fourth house on the left for most of the time.

When I was six or seven, I had the brilliant idea to hang up a little sign for me to know

where to look or draw a number down on the pavement

with chalk.

But every time I would come back to look for our home, the signs I made were always gone.

I believe mom removed them as soon as she spotted a change to our copy-paced

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