View Larger There isn’t anything quite like nostalgia. More so, of all the places in the world, Preston Market hit hard. Once a kid, sitting in the drivers seat of a parked car dreaming of the day that she would be old enough to legally sit behind the moving wheel. The days I spent pretending I was the cop and the world a corruption, or the days the world was perfect and I, the corruption. Those Friday afternoons or weekend blues, where an hour or two went by with no clue. Those days the prize were simple, obey and receive food. A slice of pizza or bucket of chips, as long as you hold my hand and don’t move. More than a decade has passed, the promise of food still holds, the infrastructure has mildly upgraded, but sitting behind the wheel, legally.
