When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. —Walt Whitman
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We are the visited, the indigenous Islanders. We own mansions, castles, thatched huts (there must be at least one somewhere up-Island), garage apartments, condos, converted barns, Spider Shacks (maybe just me), bungalows and bodegas. And they know it. And they are coming.