If god had a hobby, he must've been a gardener and Chester Park was his backyard. It is a place where, peace resides. The space it occupies expands beyond any one corner of the horizon. It imitates the sky as if the whole world had been flipped over yet retained its contents. Chester Park feels like walking on a bed of clouds. The grass doesn't grow more than the height of your ankles and your feet buries deep in the cold ground. The tingling of each strand permeates up the body. Some bury their hands in the grass, stroke through it, until the tips of their finger reach the moist soil. Some claw the ground, leaving residue under their nails, while some gently brush the tiny field and comb each stem out, mimicking their own hair.