It was as if someone has placed their finger on a map and drawn a snake. It wound with all its curves over hills, and across rich lands. It ran with a river, and then it didn’t. It was rugged, and it was beautiful and it was my city. It was my city filled with lights, and then none at all. One moment you could see the stars, and the next you would come into a traffic jam with a sky that looked as if it couldn’t hold another sky scrapper. We were farmers, we were writers, we were stockbrokers, and we were fishers. We were everything and nothing at all. Such a cliché, but such a perfect description of the place I call home. It’s a utopia within itself, and such perfection of flaws. That’s the only way I know how to describe my town. And as I sit here, drinking my coffee at local shop, overlooking the busy town and its lazy people, I feel the need to write it all down. To write down my life. And so here it begins, with my town, the saga that could essentially change some lives.