Are places just places or do the ghosts of events past lurk around their corners, dribbling narratives and memory like senile elders? Can they ever be sterile, antiseptic, scrubbed free of the flotsam that is a solitary man’s story? Will there always be a stance to a square of earth, a side of emotion, a tug, a claim? What is it about places that make them more than places?
Perhaps just the fact that everyone has one. And loves one. Even if the ‘twain do not meet.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi