I would like to be part of a life-changing moment that takes me back thirty years, when my grandfather told mother that she should leave. I would like to go back to when mother told me to stay away from three specific things: boys, tattoos, and this country. I would again like to hear my twelve-year-old self say: I love this city too much to ever leave. I want to go back to when I had no future plans to stand in between my Beirut and I. I want to go back to 3 a.m. on a school night in ninth grade when I wrote about how I would love to run through the streets of my city during dawn just to witness the purity of its damage: the war-ruined buildings and the garbage flooded streets that never changed. The ever-changing sea. I want to return to when my father first gave me a copy of Beirut, I Love You and told me to eat up the words because his smart little daughter needed a proper book to educate her. I want to tell my mother that after I had gotten involved with so many boys, it nearly drove me to pieces to deal with them anymore. I wanted to tell her that after I had my skin permanently inked because I could not take the loss of a cousin (I had to have a reminder of her right there on my skin), I would want to stay in a city that has corrupted me into becoming a dreamer.