most of the homes were shacks.
He felt a stab of disappointment.
Evidence of harshness raced along-
concrete blocks, stacked bricks-
a sort of stalemate
everywhere he looked.
A moment later, he could see
drops on the windshields of cars.
Somewhere in between
the rain of a thousand storms,
A lone strand of Christmas lights had been
turned on, as if,
welcoming him home.
[ A place where it mattered
when he awoke.]
Source: Chapter 9, Nights in Rodanthe by Nicholas Sparks