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The alarm goes off. She ignores it. That’s the right idea. But there’s no squeezing time for more and lying here will only start a chain reaction of shit. I can’t afford to fall behind. So with regret I kick off the blanket. The air is cold. She touches my arm. It’s hard to walk away. 
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Slapping feet on concrete get my attention. I watch a chubby kid run to the street with a hunk of cake in his hand and chocolate all over his face. The little brute, the glutton, he disgusts me! The world would be better if he didn’t stop at the curb. No such luck. 
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The embers die when I crush the butt with my boot. I swing the door open never knowing what to expect. Nothing but trash today. The old metal stairs creak as I climb them. In my apartment I slip off my boots. I make coffee. I take a mug to my desk. I tap the keys to find myself. 
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I’m glad she’s seeing someone. Though I should’ve asked questions. What does he do, is he kind, is he better than me? But I’m no longer entitled to details. Two decades together passed in a flash. Three years later and I wonder how long until we both forget. 
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I buy a cheap sandwich from an expensive market. Her apartment is freezing but the shower runs hot. She reads in bed. I doze. ‘It's early…don’t sleep,’ she teases. ‘I have to wake in a few hours,’ I plead. ‘You’ve always got an excuse,’ follows her eye roll. We laugh. Life is good. 
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The arms of the man I call The Mummy proceed him as he exits the rooming house. His ragged shirt is open. The soft autumn sun beats his pale white chest and casts shadows on his ribs. He moans with every step. In his haggard face I see myself. Life is boring without struggle. 
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In John Cabot Square I count nine police officers for one black male. He curses as two of them go through his things, I would as well. The rest of the cops crowd around like adolescents observing a fight. My father once said no one ever graduates high school. I hate that he was right. 
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I dart into traffic. A benefit of being in this quarter. So many drug addicts. Most of them men my age riding bikes same as me. They’re prone to erratic behaviour. Drivers are aware. I take advantage. I swerve and yell at the top of my lungs. The day is over. I’m alive. 
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Am I fool, sacrificing comfort for art? I could’ve been my father. A steady job. A life with all the ornaments of modern life. But that didn’t make sense. He was caught in a cage. So I cast off my past to refuse that future. I made the right choice. 
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I watch hookers wave at cars and men leave the rooming house empty handed to return with boxes of beer. Pushing ink through a screen I wish it was me with nothing better to do but pass the day getting drunk in my dirty little room. It’s depressingly romantic. It’s easy. But I reject the cliché. 
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The sun is out when I open my eyes. I’m inclined to curse the fucking thing. How dare it drench me in its warmth, doesn’t it know it’s too early? No! Of course not! And I should be happy it’s not hiding behind grey clouds. So I retract my malediction. I replace it with gratitude. 
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I stare at the ceiling looking for motivation. Something’s off. Because I’m not often prone to wallowing in an inspirational void. But I’m burned out. Breathing and eating and living suck me dry, while writing restores the soul. Ah, there, that’s my reason to get out of bed. 
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Before leaving I wake her. She opens her eyes and puts her fingers in my scruffy beard. She pulls me close and kisses my lips. ‘You’re beautiful’ she repeats until I believe. I didn’t sleep last night so I’m emotional. My vision blurs with tears. 
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The sun is bright and my natural clock is on time. But that’s not why I wake. Through an open window floats a woman’s voice on a cool autumn breeze. ‘I’ll fucking kill you…I fucking hate you…you’ll pay for what you’ve done!’ I toss the heavy blankets from my naked flesh. Life is always marvellous. 
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I wake in the early hours with a hammer in my skull. I blame the accidental sip of beer I gagged on last night. And sitting on the edge of the bed shaking pills into my palm I recall when every day was a hangover. I wore them like medals of valour. Now I see what they really were, the opposite. 
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Fallen leaves crunch on the sidewalk. My legs are sore as we stroll but I keep my mouth shut. She desires movement. And I prefer she feels like she’s living not merely standing still. I want to remind her life isn’t only the shit. So I ignore my pain, because that’s the god damned trick. 
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I spread out a brightly coloured blanket in the grass. We lie down with our shoes off watching the clouds. I fall asleep on my side. When I wake she’s using me as support, a book of poems in her hand. These are the last days of summer. I look into her eyes and ask for a kiss. 
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She takes me to a Hungarian place in an épicerie. Surrounded by dry goods we both order schnitzel with spätzle. She tells me it’s a popular side in Alsace. Nearby a lone lobster moves lethargically from one end of a tank to the other. I’ve known people who live the same way. 
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It’s punishing but I make it through the day to receive the end with glee. I shut down machines. I rush out the door and into the sun. I pedal away thinking of a cigarette and a large dinner. The comfort of her bed. My arm around her. There’s nothing more. 
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We slowly walk as smiling people crowd Friday night streets. Weekend thoughts on everyone’s mind. Two free days for every seven, it’s hideous! Family and friends and joy suffer in the face of making enough to get by. I hold her hand a little tighter while dreaming of rebellion. 
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I put on boots and listen. Someone shuffling down the hall. I wait for the knock and anxious early morning moaning until the door is opened. I couldn’t be a dealer. Always working. No time to yourself is no life for me. I never had a taste for capitalism. I prefer my liberty. 
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The feeling of summer winding down is heavy in the air. I remember nights in forests and on beaches. A great big fire with people all around. The heat was congenial but too many voices have always given me chills. Today, alone, I watch sunlight dance on the canal. 
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We eat croissant au nutella. I prepare coffee. We sit at my kitchen table chatting. She’s skilled at getting me to pause, to step back and enjoy life before submitting to what’s next? She’s on the mark. Enjoy every moment. Appreciate the people around me. That’s what it means to be rich. 
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Before the clock gives permission I pack up. I take my pay and tell the boss I’ll see him next week. No work Monday he says. I smile. Twenty-four extra hours to celebrate a life spent pursuing food and shelter. Millennia pass and nothing changes. The sun is warm on my face. 
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Holding hands we wander avenue Duluth. We look at cats lying in a cafè window though we both find it too gross to ever go inside. A few blocks away a choir sings in the street. Standing behind her I gently touch her hips. She pulls my arms around her waist.
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He walks in flashing a peace sign. I want to run over and hug him but hold off, act as if it’s nothing, like he was here yesterday not three months ago. He looks well. No limp. No groan. And the twinkle in his eye that wasn’t there last time he got out of jail is back. Life is full of hope. So am I. 
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Leaning against the rooming house he looks like he stepped off the bus from Calgary. Wide brimmed hat and boots, a tasseled leather jacket and faded blue jeans. But this isn’t the corner for rustling cattle. And the way he eyes men in cars, I don’t think he knows a thing about horses. 
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It’s early but my chance to sleep is lost. I dangle my legs over the side of her bed. When the floor creaks I pause like a burglar, but she doesn’t even move. There’s so much beauty in her peace. Standing at the toilet I piss above the water line. It barely makes a sound. 
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A text from the boss. No work. Shit, my quality of life is going to drop unless I’m savvy. Ok ok, this is good, an omen I’m spending too much, living like I’m someone else. But now is not the time to panic. Instead I focus on the present. It costs me nothing to type, and the refrigerator’s full. 
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The heat is unbearable. And having nothing to do makes it hard to ignore. I pretend to work as sweat runs down my back. It collects in the crack of my ass. I scratch. I guzzle cold water like I was found wandering the desert. But this is no ordeal, it’s life, and the landlord is always waiting. 
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I take a break from sweating to sit on the stoop. Across the street a hooker peels off on a mountain bike. An old man in a suit made for greek holidays follows behind, his chrome coloured scooter glows in the sun. They return too quickly for him to come. He must’ve bought drugs. I light a joint. 
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Staying still is a protest. Today is a reprieve from breaking my back for money. Non-stop advertising influences us to waste our lives in pursuit of possessions. A house and a car and the newest phone or else you’re nothing. I scoff because I know the truth. Love is all that matters. 
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Nothing moves. All of yesterday’s hookers have gone somewhere else. No doubt run off by the cop car sitting on the corner when I got here. Though the city is so still the bar across from where I’m standing resembles a painting in this light. Every little moment is full of beauty. 
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Tu parles français? I respond un peu. Her dress is short and her legs are addict skinny, but she’s pretty and could be stomping down a runway instead of standing on a corner. She bends at the waist and shakes her ass in my face. Our eyes meet, and I say non merci ma chérie. 
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The heat is stifling though it doesn’t stop us from holding hands. In a Persian café we order fried chicken sandwiches and eat on the terrace. Sated we stroll along busy Friday night streets. A cat trapped on a rooftop meows for aid. She holds my bag while I go up to coax it down. 
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I warm up dinner and sweat while I eat. I smoke a cigarette and feel sick for my effort. I wear nothing but underwear. From the couch I watch reality TV dubbed in French. I want to improve. I want to impress her. J’en ai marre de la chaleur. 
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I wake up giggling. I’m confident I no longer need to sleep more than a couple of hours. I’ve conquered time. I’m enlightened. Though standing I stumble. I reach for a bookcase. A top it sits a big bellied buddha. He laughs at my hubris, so I do as well. 
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Sitting on the curb feels like coming home. Aging ain’t easy. Hard times will arrive. Death in the gutter waits. I laugh as a hot breeze blows trash against my boot, I’ve already got both feet in the grave! I light a cigarette. I’ll worry about the future when it becomes the present. 
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The laundromat employee asks why I don’t have a girlfriend. I laugh and say I did but she left. I was married to a drunk twenty years…I found someone else…you will too. Her words are warm. Life is worth living because I never know what’s coming. 
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As I work I stare out the emergency exit. People shuffle from the rooming house to the corner store, they return with beer. Hookers wave at lone men in cars hoping to make enough to get high. The sunlight is soft and it looks like a movie. But this is real life. We’re all doing what we got to do. 
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In the bistro I take a coffee and a pain au chocolat. From a sidewalk table I watch beautiful women pass. I’m invisible. And as flaky crumbs fall from my lips I have an epiphany. I’m old, I’m unlovable, solitude is my fate. So I bow my head to destiny.  I go inside and type. 
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After I shower I dress. With my ear to the steel I listen to familiar voices murmur down the hall. I hesitate turning the handle, only the desperate are away from bed at this hour. Look who’s talking? A door slams shut. The corridor is silent. I take my chance.  
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A cigarette burns between my fingers as I sit on the curb. The sidewalk is wet with air conditioning discharge. A pile of trash less than a meter away is starting to cook. Last night I was showing her pictures of the sandy beach I grew up on. I’ve always been confused. 
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The desire to smoke a cigarette is undeniable. I dress in dirty jeans and a wrinkled white t-shirt. I lock the door. The corridor is damp with humidity, but at least it no longer smells of beer. Scent is a powerful reminder. And I hate what I was yesterday. 
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In the sun I sit on the steps of an evangelical church. I smoke a cig. I read about zen buddhism. Around me the streets are beginning to bustle. Hordes of people making the most of their free time, the weekend. I’m not any different. We have something in common. It’s bondage. 
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I watch the rooming house door. I want to see him limp out. Though it’s been too many weeks since anyone’s heard from him. And when men like him die they’re incinerated by the government quicker than we like to think. If no on cares you’re easily disposable. I push ink through a screen. He and I are the same. 
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Cigarettes never last long enough. I toss mine on the ground and crush it with my toe. Through the side door and up the metal stairs. I unlock my apartment and enter quietly. My typing is fast. The words won’t stop. This is my blood. 
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It’s the weekend. A fleeting taste of liberty on my tongue and no burdens to push me down. Even the weight of the world takes a break from its desire to destroy me. So I roll over. I pull my lover close. Rain plays on the rooftop. I think I’ll stay in bed. 
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I must recall what I want forget, funnel it into my art, take what destroyed me and use it to rebuild. Look at nature. Nothing new grows without the old dying. This is peaceful, a comfort, because from the destruction of my self another will bloom. Maybe I’ll be beautiful. 
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I slide into bed. She takes my hand as I close my eyes. It’s a comfort though I can’t sleep. My phone lights my face as I check the time. Still early. I threaten to take the metro home but I don’t. Because I’d rather have my arm around her, than be well-rested 
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In a bistro I order coffee and an amandine. At a table out front I devour the sweet and savour the other. I read an essay on zen buddhism from a stolen hardcover library book. I chased an urge and took it from the thief. I was being righteous then, today I’m being humble. I smoke a cigarette. 
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I crush out a cig on the steps and toss it in a beer box full of trash. I stretch up to the sky. I feel it pulling directly below my navel. The higher I reach the closer to ecstasy I become. I shut my eyes and leave this world behind. I don’t have to work for the next five days. 
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I was having coffee with another writer when he asked me why I do it. I told him I’m looking for enlightenment. I didn’t lie, but it’s not the entire truth. I sit in front of the computer because I’m searching for a way to be human. But it doesn’t seem to be working. 
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She tells me I look good and I blush. I had strawberry cake she responds when I ask how she’s doing. She lies in bed as we talk and I wish I was there with her in the French countryside. I need to feel her next to me. It’s been three weeks. And I’m craving something sweet as well.
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I flick my butt in the gutter. I walk through an overgrown field on my way to the metro. I run to catch a train and the door shuts in my face, third one today. So I laugh at my fortune. I turn my earbuds up all the way. Another one’ll be by any minute, who cares? Not I. 
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I stand at the window. The morning is clear and I see the ruins of Canada Malting, I see distant church spires in Ville-Émard. I look upon dilapidated, vine-covered balconies of nearby apartments and smile. I never thought I’d last this long, or have so much to be thankful for. 
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I’m not sure how I got here. But it all worked out. This is where I saw myself twenty years ago, hunched over and typing, calling myself a writer. Which is scary. Because the visions I have of my future are grim. If I make it another two decades, I’ll be on the gutter 
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The ride home is no easier than this morning. Different direction though the wind is still against me. I don’t understand but I accept by pumping my legs and taking deep breaths. I look at the canal. Ducks float effortlessly among the reflection of clouds. I smell lilac. I travel back in time. 
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Looking out the window I devour an amandine. A waitress bring my drink. I gather my things and leave the plate. On the corner I smoke a cigarette looking at the sky. The temperature drops and dark clouds bring twilight early. I smell rain before it falls. I walk home without a care. 
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Smashed computer m onitors fill the dumpster, I heave my sack on top. In the sun I light a cigarette. I search old brick walls for new graffiti, but I’m disappointed. A tenant exits the building with his own offering of trash. I nod. He looks right through me. Screw you too. 
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Everything I do is rushed. I work harder than necessary and still fall behind. Though being in a  fugue is good for the passage of time. Before I know it I’m running out the door. Rain drops wash my face. I’m reborn. 
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I’m tired. Rundown. There isn’t time enough for the average proletarian to rest, to be ready and willing to perform their duties. Instead we’re crushed by the demands of capitalism. But for now I write, and for a moment I’m alive. 
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I crawl into bed. I lie motionless. I tell myself she’s right. She does make me happy. And on days when I feel like everything I’ve done has been a mistake, I have to remember her eyes, her smile, her hand on my cheek. Not every step I take is false. 
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Standing on the street I’m happy to be alive. It’s hard to believe where I am, the life I call mine. The other night I let it hurt my feelings when she giggled at my accent, but I should think my father sitting in his armchair. He never knew the joys I do. No woman like this ever looked at him like that. 
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I shower quickly. Time to work. Because I hear the routine calling. The break I took was long enough. Trees have bloomed and moods have changed. I left the city and returned. Now I’m ready to fight. And the only opponent I care to beat is me. I sit in front of my weapon with a smile.
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On a curb in front of the building I smoke a cigarette. An old habit though something is off. I’ve been gone for too long. It hardly feels like home. Montréal is full of reasons to smile, but my best one is currently away. So I use my phone to search for flights I can’t afford. 
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Three hours later I wake. No alarm needed. Nothing but routine. Though I know I’m not making it out of bed quite yet, and there’s no chance I’m getting any writing done this morning. Uh oh…I’m in trouble…I’m allowing myself to be distracted.
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Dressed in soiled clothes I feel better but not great. I  tiptoe through the apartment. I find a pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. Outside it’s warm. Under large trees I stand in the pattern of leaf light. I’m dappled. I’m smiling. Screaming children terrorize the playground.
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The bus pulls out after midnight. I’m itching to sleep, to wake up at the border and go through the motions of reentry into my country of origin. In Montréal there’s someone waiting. But traffic isn’t moving, and I can’t settle down
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I get lost on my way to the park, but I find it. Latinos smoke weed in the shade of leafy green trees. I do the same. When I open an old copy of Sidhartha the words take me back twenty years. I was hungry for life. I’m no different today. A man offers to sell me some baklava. I shoo him away. 
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A sea of people pass as I smoke a half gram joint. Tourists look on in disgust as a woman rummages through the trash for cans, but everyone’s got to eat. I head into the subway at 42nd St. A man dressed like a golfer is pissing on the stairs, I smile, it’s good to be back. 
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It’s spring! Time for rebirth! And I’ve never been more ready. I see the patterns. If I don’t change now, how many more people will leave, how much lost love am I able to regret? I’m not a fool, nothing lasts forever, but I don’t need to force the end. I can take it slow. 
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On three hours sleep I feel great; for now. But it’s not enough. I have to get home. I have to make coffee. Sun lit shards of glass on the sidewalk steal my attention. A gold sedan with a smashed out window. I bow to Monday morning. I smoke a cig before taking the train.
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I wake. I write. After dinner I go for a walk. The night is alive with people. I miss when this quarter was a ghost town, but it’s pleasant to be among them, to see smiling faces lit up by nothing more than Friday night. I sit on the church steps. I smoke. Small pleasures are my greatest. 
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It’s been nice all day. Though when it’s time to leave the sky opens up. All I can do is shrug because it’s true. I walk out the door. I wink at the heavens and say I’m onto you. I cut through traffic on a bicycle. I smile as warm rain pelts my face. I’m heading home 
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The reading ends and I scurry out the door. In front of a darkened café I smoke a cig. I intend to return, socialize, but the pressure is too great. A voice inside my flesh demands to be taken home, coddled, wrapped in blankets. I hurry off before I’m seen. 
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I sit at my desk and smoke a joint. I drink a coffee, but I’m not preparing myself to write. I need a break from looking in the mirror. It isn’t always easy to inspect. It takes so much. I have to rest before I do it again. It won’t be long. Because my self forever calls
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I wake. And before I know it I’m standing outside  blowing smoke into the air. The weather isn’t bad. There isn’t a soul on the street. I breathe the moment in. So few in city life this silent. I live alone, but the world is always screaming for my attention. This morning I don’t rush. I enjoy. 
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I sit on a graffiti covered ledge. I light a cigarette. From here I see the top of Mont Royal. Trees obscure the mansions on its side. But closer to me it’s social housing and dumpsters, a church with broken spires. This suits me. I go home to write. 
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I gather my clothes from the floor. Scurrying down the stairs my shadow is hunched like Nosferatu on the wall. I stop to admire a houseplant. A single leaf holds a drop of water collected overnight. I have nothing to do with it, though I feel proud. Not everything I touch rots on the vine. 
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I wander looking for a richer life. Not the type money‘ll buy. No, all I need is a desire to walk, to look at the world, to savour every god damned moment I’m alive. Strangers smile as I pass. I must be doing the same. I wait for a red light. I jaywalk as soon as I can. Simple pleasures. 
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The day pushes down. There’s no energy to fight. A nap is all I need. A few minutes. I’ll wake refreshed. Prepared to work. But when I open my eyes it’s an hour and a half later, and impossible to rise. My blankets are heavy. The pillow reaches out and grabs my face. 
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Under the train bridge pigeons devour a pile of seed. They barely notice me. We call them vermin though for thousands of years we bred them. Modern society no longer sees their value. So same as me they don’t know what to do. At least they eat together. At least they’re free to fly away. 
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I overhear the lamentations of a man with a giant brown dog. The price of lavender shampoo for the beast is through the roof. I take a drag on my cigarette. I wonder if life isn’t too easy? And the owner might do well to suffer for real. Though the coat of the animal does shine. 
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On rue Saint-Denis I wander slowly. An old man with a large walking stick strolls in my direction. He sings a French folk song. Our eyes meet and his voice is nice. It reminds me there’s no better city come spring than Montréal. I piss on some trash in an alley. 
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On a bench in front of the bistro I devour a viennoiserie. Morsels end up in my shoes. Pathetic, but what do you do? I light a cigarette with the air of a nobleman. I exhale with dignity. I cross my leg. It’s dainty the way my foot kicks. Brown sugar crumbles fall. Pigeons will sing my praise. 
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The days move fast. Before I know it I’ll be out of them. It’s what drives me. The idea death is waiting with its grin. So I figure the only way to win is to make the most of every second. I can’t waste time waking up. I jump from the couch where I slept again. I laugh at what’s coming. 
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I shiver before opening my eyes. The apartment is freezing and I’m not even out from under the blankets. Life is rough. So I shut off my alarm before the buzzing drives me insane. I look at the ceiling. The faces in the wood are laughing. I groan. There’s no better way to start the day. 
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I should revel. If this my destiny I have to stop wallowing. It’s time to make the most of the mess I made. Silver linings. Like time to write, to stare into the looking glass. Deep within is my true self. These words will take me to it. 
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Tied to a pole is a dog with a dark face and golden body. You’re beautiful! I declare as I pass. A young French mother with messy braids looks at me. Her lips move. I pull out an earbud. You and I…we thought similar…it’s spéciale. C’est ça I agree. But I’m talking about the moment, not the beast. 
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I haul my bike up the stairs. The conditions are awful, light rain and heavy traffic. Headphones play music to drown out the thoughts of this sucks, and why am I such a failure? Under a bridge I stop, I smoke a cigarette. A scent in the air makes me feel twenty years old. Life is good. 
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I sit on a picnic table with my back to the water. I reject the idyllic view in favour of concrete, though the ripples are probably relaxing. Good for the psyche. It could help. Because bad ideas burrow like ticks. And no matter how careful I always break off the head. I turn around. I’m rewarded. 
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I stop along the canal. The weather is poor. Though being here is better than at home on the stoop. Instead of cracked concrete and trash it’s trees and water. A cyclist avoids a heavy set man waddling to a picnic table. Boiling blood raises voices. Wildlife is anything you want it to be. 
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I slept late but it’s still early by this city’s standards. So walking the halls I keep my eyes peeled for Sunday morning junkies in the shadows. Or a drunk stumbling home, using the walls as support. Both are known for mood swings. Today the corridors are quiet. I’m alone. Nothing new. 
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Last day of the week though my body already punched out. It has no intention of riding a bike across town for the privilege of printing shirts all day. Its plan is to head upstairs after a cigarette and type, fill itself with coffee and smoke pot until sleep comes calling. But the literary life escapes me.
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I type. I feel sick while I do. But no matter how much I want to pass out I smile. If this is what I love, than it’s necessary to work through the trials of being alive. I can’t let little things like sleep deprivation get in the way of making these keys sing. I do what makes me happy. It’s my punishment. 
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The city is mine now. No longer need I worry about the repercussions. I’m the only one I can harm. I can throw myself entirely upon the fire. I drank to take my hands off the wheel, when all I had to was drive everyone away. I got there in the end. 
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I walk with my hands behind my back. It’s a nice night. Lots of people out. I sit in the park and smoke. I listen to music as lovers stroll. I’m lucky to be breathing, because all of us are living on borrowed time, while thinking we have forever. A beautiful dog barks at me. Isn’t it precious? 
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It’s an uphill battle no matter where you’re from. That’s my mantra when I walk the streets, bathing with the great unwashed. You never know what’s going on in people’s heads, the struggles tearing them apart. I tell myself they’re worse than mine. And kindness is the easiest to give. 
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I perform my rituals. I end up at my desk. Sitting here feels correct. Like every step I took was getting me here. The glimpses of good and the heaps of bad. Drinking them down was necessary. If not, for what? They molded me. They placed me in this chair. Typing is a welcome penance for the past. 
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A drunk croons on the street. He stops to say I look calm as fuck. No other way to live I respond. He laughs. You be hitting that reefer later I bet. Looking over my shoulder I tell him I already did, and to have a good night, because I had a great day. He resumes his singing where he left off. 
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I jog through an industrial sector. A chain link fence covered in snow makes me stop to take a photo. I continue running when I’m done. Slush fills my shoes. My feet are wet but I don’t care. The damp air cooling my lungs is good. And the blood in my ears is a song. 
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There’s always something gnawing away. Voices feeding on insecurity. They grow louder with every bite. They echo in this apartment. I turn up the music. I type a little harder. When my phone flashes I’m filled with hope. It’s proof I’m not forgotten.
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I shower and dress. I smoke a cigarette. I do it quickly, because I’m starting to unravel. Poisonous thoughts often get the best of me. And the way to rid myself of them is open my laptop and type. It’s the only path to peace I know. I cough, and laugh at my delusions. 
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I see Montréal open itself to me over his shoulder. I’ve lived here more than a decade, and the person who arrived has been stripped. Now I’m in search of what I’ve become. Because what I see in the mirror isn’t who I was. J’ai hâte de me découvrir. I wave and walk away. 
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Saturday morning…nothing to do…lie in bed. All the time to myself but there isn’t. I feel pressure to get up…start work. I’m at my finest. The day goes downhill as the sun rises. A steady loss of energy. A decline in morale. It’s now or never. I rush to my computer while others sleep. 
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I wake depressed. I want to walk away from what she told me like it’s nothing. But I’m more than a rock. I’m made of meat like everyone else. So I wonder if the last twenty years were nothing but a joke. Was it love, or was I keeping his seat warm? Who cares. 
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I’ve lost jobs for speaking up. So when I don’t like what I hear I shut my mouth to keep my life easy. If Dad taught me anything it was do as little as possible. I didn’t know any better. But the older I get, the more I crave the excitement he didn’t. We’re not as similar as I thought. 
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I give in to the alarm and head straight to the shower. Cold water drives the sleep from my flesh. Push the nausea down. Revel in the feeling of last night. Fall asleep at the top and wake at the bottom. I’m not new to this. I don’t even need alcohol to do it. 
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I’m lead through the mob like I’m important. The events coordinator tells me things and I barely listen. It’s standing room only. The murmuring crowd fills my head. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in front of so many people. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m going to have a heart attack. 
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Strolling rue Notre-Dame I’m glad I gave up waiting for the bus. Ambient music in my earbuds and the world around me is a film. I weave through couples holding hands and groups of friends enjoying the sun. I open my parka. Suddenly I’m filled with joy. 
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A man with hair grey like mine hobbles up on two canes. Waiting for the bus he tries to light a cig. As-tu un feu he asks when his doesn’t work. Our hands touch as I pass him mine. His skin is smooth like he’s never been exposed to work or weather, or entirely too much fire. I shudder when I look in his eyes. 
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At a red wooden table in the bistrot I sit eating a date square. Nearby an old woman wearing un chandail marinière tells her friend Miss Piggy used to be avant-garde, but now everyone looks like that. I hide behind a book and drink a mug of coffee. I’m a part of Saint-Henri. It’s a part of me. 
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The gallery is packed. Everyone looks the same holding plastic glasses of white wine. The melange of conversation sounds like insects humming. In front of an ill-fitting painting I wonder if someone wasn’t ready for a solo show. A nerdy blonde smiles. It’s good to leave the apartment. 
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He cracks a beer. I spin the carousel and print a shirt before I joke, there’s plenty of paint thinner if you get thirsty. You think you’re better with your pot…we all need something to calm our thoughts, he bellows. I look in to his cloudy eyes. He and I are both the same. We crave a little quiet. 
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A hooker sleeps in a flower box out front the pizza parlour. Both hands clasped under her head she looks cozy, like a child taking a nap. But I see no innocence in the man who wakes her. They talk while she rubs her eyes. He doesn’t help her stand. I watch them walk away. I hope she fucking robs him. 
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The wind on the street is cold so I imagine my sister’s farm in the summer. No apartment complexes or cigarette butts in the gutter, just long fields and a barn cat meowing for its supper. Standing here I wonder what I’m doing. The bus arrives, and I can’t find my pass. 
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Police cars block rue Sainte-Catherine. I cut through. I stand on the corner to watch the commotion. Chubby people frantically run about in buckled shoes. A terrifying statue of a saint stares down on us. An old man adjusts the tassel on his fez. I detest parades. 
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I prepare coffee and walk to the canal. An old route I’ve strolled countless times. It used to be with her. I smirk because I know where I’ll end up. On our old bench in a manicured park. Today I’ll face the sun until it dips below the trees. I’ll look toward the future. 
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On the stairs of a boarded up storefront sunlight kisses me. I curse the need to work. To pay rent and eat and go out on the weekend to make it worth while. Because everyone passing smiles. Montréal’s in bloom. A city in need of the sun. We turn to it like wilting flowers. 
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My laundry stops. It’s wet so I put quarters in the machine. A man asks me how much time he gets for his money. He thanks me when I tell him. I finish writing. I step outside to smoke a cigarette. Rap music plays in my headphones. I yell violent lyrics as people pass. It’s a beautiful night. 
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I cycle through tears of depression and laughing like a villain. I rub my hands over my face. Pressing my palms into my eyes is a relief. If the pressure were always there I’d be on top of the world. From across the shop  a coworker eyes me suspiciously. All I can do is giggle. 
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Two days in a row I wake early. I curse the time change. It’ll be the death of me. And I’m too young for that. I have things to live for. Books to write…women to meet…a bladder to empty! I jump from the mattress like I’m on fire. Though it’s being wet I’m afraid of. 
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Because of the urge to write I get out of bed. The voice in my head whispers with force as I open the fridge. It reminds me to hurry. That even though the sun hasn’t made it over the rooftops yet, it’s later than I think, and there’s nothing left to eat. 
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I write then nap. I wake restless. There’s a feeling like all of winter’s melancholy found a home in my chest. I stare out the window watching it rain. I imagine warm days and clear skies. Blades of grass tickling my skin. Headphones in my ears. How much longer must I suffer? 
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The bus is nearly empty. I sit at the back by the engine. I sweat. I undo my jacket. Staring out the window I give myself pep talks. I try to cheer up. To remember I’m in charge of how I react. And every kick from the universe comes with a reward. All I need is just a little patience. 
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I sneak up behind the old thief. I yelp in his ear but he saw my reflection in the boss’s eyes, so he laughs in my face. I smell stale booze on his breath. He reminds me of so many men I’ve known in the past. I reflect on what I used to be. He tells me I’m too dumb. 
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In front the café I stand by the recycling bins. This is what I’ve become, I’m nothing but a piece of trash I laugh, while searching for my cigarettes. People pass in small groups. Conversations are flashes. Dogs come toward me but leashes stop them short. The want in their eyes is my hope. 
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On a bench I smoke a cigarette and watch the quarter come and go. A man furiously kicks trash and yells. Saws whir from a construction site. City workers grind fallen branches into mulch. But it’s nothing compared to the silence of my apartment. That’s worse. Spring is promising. 
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Sluggishly I get out of bed. I take my time because this morning I have a lot. But I shouldn’t waste a second. The minutes will slip by fast if I move slow. So today I fight against languor and sloth. I’ll make the most of everything. Or else I fail myself. 
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On the way home I stop in the butchers for peppers and bananas. At a middle eastern shop I buy bags of spice, a box of incense. I speak French with the cashier. Outside the air is fresh not stale. On rue Notre-Dame I’m among the people. I am one of them. And everyone of them is me. 
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Thirteen dollars for a day old croissant and a pack of cigarettes. The world’s gone to hell. But you can’t skimp out when it comes to necessities. I cut through a deserted intersection without looking any of the ways. I bite into my pasty only to see the centre is hollow. It’s better than nothing. 
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No matter what hole opens up in front of me, the universe comes along and fills it. This belief carries calmness. Because every challenge pushes me in the right direction. So I welcome the trials. Each a way to prove myself to the heavens. I toss my cig and laugh at it all. 
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Its white stripe glows under the streetlight as it struts down the sidewalk. It must know people with sense stay indoors during flash freezes. I’m different. I enjoy the wind tickling my ribs. I laugh. This is the hour of the skunk and I’m interrupting. But we have something in common. 
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Outside my window it sounds like someone is rattling sheet metal. I can’t sleep. Bad weather is exciting. With it comes change. Sunny skies are on the way. So I get dressed. Down on the street the city is quiet. The wind blows me around like a piece of trash. I remember I’m alive. 
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It’s barely five am and already warm on the street. The smell of spring is noticeable. I relax. I allow myself to believe winter is over. No more snow. This year was easy. But the sound of approaching footsteps wrecks my bliss. There’s always a chance for predawn violence. I prepare. 
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Middle of the night and klaxons screech. I jump from bed and gather clothes, the fire department often arrives at its leisure. Panicked voices in the corridor drown out the sound of my piss against porcelain. False alarm, hollers a man. Doors slam. I’m awake. I might as well write. 
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In the metro a grey-haired drifter sits cross-legged. He waves an old ten dollar bill like a flag. His smile is so wide it cuts his face in half and fills me with hope. If he can find joy at the bottom of this escalator we all have a chance. I guiltily shrug as I pass. My pockets are empty. 
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Others look forward to the weekend. Me too. It’s time to write. To forget capitalism. To give my blood and sweat into what I was born to do. But when smoking is my only reason to leave the apartment I’m faced with reality. I got what I asked for. 
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I can’t be sure it’s not a ploy. Cut my hours. Make me quit. No…it’s only winter. And with warm weather things’ll pick up. The work will roll in. But for now I’m nervous. I’m jittery. Can I pay the rent? I’ve had it too good for too long. I’m due. I prepare myself for the kick. 
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Standing on the stoop I pass her my lighter. She closely inspects the design. An 8-bit maple leaf. She rambles. Her voice is soft and comforting. So I’m quiet. I watch her calloused hands unwrap a pack of cigarettes. She clutches one with her lips. The flame is bright. I should ask her name. 
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I take my coffee outside and light a cigarette. A familiar barista exits the café. Her lips move as a garbage truck rumbles by. What was that I ask? I hope you have a shitty day she smiles. I laugh. Why are you so hard on me? You deserve it. She walks away with a wink. 
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Frozen puddles reflect streetlights. The concrete is cracked and white. A freight train rumbles out of town as thick snow falls. It looks like a painting even if it’s one I don’t like. I beg for budding trees while I smoke a cigarette. I know my hopes are in vain. So I don’t hold my breath. 
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I’ve been too confident. Running my mouth when I know better. Keep my cards close to my chest. It’s the only way. Not all this blabbering. I hear the universe laugh as I climb down a ladder from where I sleep. It’s witnessed my arrogance. I’m destined to fail. But I won’t let that stop me. 
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After writing I hurry back to bed. I read while the sun warms my face. I put down the book then follow. My body is heavy. My thoughts run. I need to slow down, take it easy, don’t let the work devour me. I laugh out loud. I’ll only give in when I have to. Exhaustion is welcome. 
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According to the crime blotter this is the perfect hour and I’m the right age to be stabbed to death. I drag on my cigarette. Through a cloud of smoke I watch a hooded man approach. I grip a small club in my pocket. I’ve been cooped up too long. I crave a little action. 
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From an alley mouth I spy on the quarter. I have no other reason to leave the apartment again, so I inhale more than nicotine and chemicals. I breathe in life. Beside my job voyeurstic moments are my only connection to humanity. And toiling is no way to experience mankind. I take a drag. 
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Haggard people hurry by me on the street. I give them all stories. Like in a warm apartment smelling of dinner someone is waiting. The air thick with love. I pray I’m delusional and most return to cold dark rooms and meowing cats. I want us all to be alone together. 
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I sit in a single seat near the front of the bus. No headphones. I chastised myself this morning. But now as we rattle along a service road with the setting sun reflecting in the distant buildings downtown, no one is making a sound. I’m in a trance. And it’s the most peace I’ve known in a while. 
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At a small round table in a bistrôt I recall a quote.‘There are two great tragedies of life. The first is not getting what you want. The second is getting it.’ I begged for time to write. Now I miss someone sitting here with me. The waitress brings my turkey sandwich. I appreciate everything thing I have, and lost. 
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I shower and dress. I apply cologne though it’s  not yet daytime. I smoke outside with my parka open to the air. This is what I missed. Hope in a breeze that smells like the promise of warm weather. I can see days in the park under leafy trees. Women in short skirts. I’ll take it in droves.
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Implants in her forehead make her look like a demon. But she’s got long legs and a plump ass. No bra. I lick my lips as my mind wanders into the gutter. When her boyfriend enters the laundromat I exit. Under the neons I light a cigarette. Exhaling I shake her from my thoughts. Too bad. 
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The math is easy. My life minus drinking equals downward spiral. At least when I couldn’t see straight I had someone to go to bed with, someone to wake up for. It was beautiful. J’ai eu ma raison d’être. Now things aren’t clear. I get on a bus headed to work. Though I don’t know what for. 
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I sit down to write. But the kink in my neck bites with sharp teeth. And the pressure in my broken heart threatens to burst. My thoughts are scattered. My sentences are clumsy. They lack my rhythm. Nausea bubbles. The room spins but I don’t stop. I pound the keys for my salvation. 
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I should’ve stayed in bed but I’ve come this far. All that’s left is to jog a few blocks, stand before the printing press and push ink. No problem. The gruelling manual labour will soothe the stabbing pain in my neck. A working man’s massage. 
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A woman wanders into the street. A vehicle bears down. I shout but she’s dazed. My heart pounds. My mind races. By the time the SUV blasts the horn I’ve seen her smeared across the asphalt. A bloody stain that used to breathe. Brakes screech. She shakes head and carries on. So do I.
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Rising from the mattress is falling into routine. I turn towards the window. The borough below me is a silhouette against the cresting sun. I reach to the sky, then the ground. I pick the heavy duvet up. I flick it out. It drops like a feather. Soon I’ll be typing. It’s all I need to smile. 
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The halls are quiet. I don’t disturb them. In front of the building the street is empty. Same as my bed. Same as my life. And because of this I savour the silence less than I used to. Now I crave the sound of voices. They remind me of what I am. Of what I belong to. The great unwashed. 
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It hits me walking out of the store. That man. He used to see Us together. He worked the counter when We came in for beer, wine, mix and ice. The times were good. Then writing took over my life. It ate away at what We had. I smoke a cigarette waiting for the bus. 
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I sit at the kitchen table eating oatmeal in my work clothes. Soon I have to catch a bus. But a shiver in my spine makes me text the boss. Quickly he responds. No…not until tomorrow. I push my bowl away. I strip. All the weight is gone. 
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A message from a far off friend names an artist I don’t know. Pictures I’ve never seen. Cause to smile. Some brightness on a cloudy day. Life is in small fragments. Short trips to the café. A screen flashes and suddenly I’m not alone. A miracle. The rest of the time it’s me and these words. 
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A notification I have a parcel fills me with joy. Finally a reason to leave the apartment. I’ll do a grand tour of Saint-Henri. I’ll get some fresh air. I won’t die like a houseplant left in a closet. I jump from my desk with renewed vigor. Maybe I’ll even get to talk. The sky’s the limit. 
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I look out the window. Nothing but wind swept snow on concrete. It has the air of a film set. A dystopian apocalypse and I’m the last one standing. Easy to believe if not for the guy downstairs. His pained groans of existence echo through the toilet. I shudder. They remind me I’ve got it good. 
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She says I quit and I shrink. But I wish her the best. I’ll see you again. Two weeks notice. I grin at her prediction though I’m not as certain. Our schedules rarely collide. I lean close when I say if I do I’ll consider myself lucky. Her smile makes me weak. She glows as I walk out the door. The quarter looks less bright now. 
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I smoke a cigarette. It’s late for me but early in the city. Empty streets are quiet. I revel now because later, when the itch to leave the apartment is unbearable, I’ll have to deal with the wretched public. The nine to fivers. Weekends are their glory. May providence smite them all. 
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I feel like I lost. Like all I have is this desk, this chair, this computer. I comfort myself with words. It’s all I need. Though on empty days when I desire the gentle caress of a lover, and long conversations in bed, my consolations are false. But hey, they’re better than nothing. 
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I stop cutting. I see my eyes. They glow a little  stronger now that there’s less hair. The razor buzzes when I switch the button. It’s a comfort, like the warm whispers of a lover. The blades are dull as they run over my scalp. I wince but don’t stop. Same as any relationship. 
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Standing stock stil in the living room I listen. The years have trained me to place sounds and scents. I wait for scuffling and scratching on the floor. I strain to hear whispers in the corridor. I sniff the air for tobacco. There’s nothing. I let out the breathe I was holding. Today I start with ease. 
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With a dull squeegee I push ink through a screen. My hands are stiff. But physical labour is good for the soul and I lose my body in repetition. I escape to my mind where I’m already in my old wooden office chair. My back is hunched. The keys are firing. In this way my labour is fulfilling. I’m free. 
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The cold laughs its way through my parka. On the damp pavement in front of the metro sits an Inuit woman. She wears a jean jacket and an infectious grin. Her voice is a song as she begs for change. Before leaving the apartment I slid coins in my pocket without a thought. I’m glad I did. 
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I lie in bed warm from sleep. I should get up to start the ritual that puts me in front of the computer. But I hesitate. It’s dark out. And on the other side of this duvet the heat is low. There’s ice on the windows. I make my life a challenge. Can I survive my self-made squalor? I kick the blankets off. 
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Stepping off the bus I fill my lungs with air. The cold is like fire in them as I jog. But with the distance between me and my job shortening I feel alive. It doesn’t matter how heavy my boots are, or that I don’t want to get where I’m going, I let out a yelp of joy. I’m addicted to pain. 
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I shower and dress. Every day resembles the one before it as I slide my arms into my parka. Life is a rite. Smoking a cigarette in the cold, breath and smoke are one. I’m shocked I find things to write about. But I do. In the sky a single star shines. A clandestine god is winking. 
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Stepping through the door the ground shifts beneath me. On the foyer floor a filthy man is praying, dried vomit at his knees. Scattered in a circle is evidence of a life. I lift my foot and find a government ID. I grunt. The Prophet stares me down. I leave him to his rituals on the way to mine. 
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I throw the duvet from my sweat-drenched body. The bed is damp where I slept; the pillow is cold and it repulses me. I haven’t woke like this since I was a drunk. My body would furiously rid me of the toxins I dumped down my throat the night before. And every night before that.
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A handsome man orders slowly. Normally this would have me groaning and rolling my eyes behind his back. But today the cold got into my ribs and now it howls from within me. So every second he wastes of the barista’s time, subjecting her to his whims, is warmth returning. Blather on you beautiful fool. 
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I sit with my back to the rest of the patrons. A waitress brings my coffee. She wrings her hands confirming I take it black. I slowly say of course to calm her. Snow falls outside the thin glass window. I’m alone though it’s romantic. The server returns with a sandwich. I eat with the grace of a pig. 
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As the small bistro warms me I’m hit with the odour of pork fried in butter. The clamour of afternoon voices muffle a familiar rock and roll melody. I smile while ordering a BLT on a croissant with a large coffee. Alone at a table in the sun I read. The world around me fades. I’m free. 
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I thought we were going to high-five. She smiles, says me too. The sound of slapping palms takes me back years, a younger coworker I’d make jump. I tell The Barista. She says it’s easier for me to come down to her. I look in her eyes, loneliness begs me to fall and fall and fall. But I don’t. 
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Both cats are in the kitchen. One is on the table and another sits by the door mewling. I know it would go a long way in our relationship to open it, and allow him the freedom he meows for. But I know my luck, and this is when an escaped condor swoops down, carrying him off for lunch. I’m sorry. 
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Coming out of the subway I pull cigarettes from my pocket. On the ride here I was reading, got lost in the words, now I need to see people. A voice cries sir as I scroll for fire. A crackhead waves. She asks for a cig, and I tell her you got it. Appreciate it mister, she nods. I don’t disbelieve her. 
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At a small bar I sit beside an attractive woman, but I’m more interested in what she’s saying. She leans in close; her voice is soft and measured. I’m lost in her eyes when ours lock. Her boyfriend’s sitting right beside her, though to us, when she rests her hand on my arm, he’s nothing but a ghost.
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I’m rested in a way that I haven’t been since I got here; borderline homeless the entire time. Not sure where I was to spend the night and public bathrooms became change rooms, the library a source of warmth and peace. My legs took me everywhere. The kindness of friends is a valuable thing. 
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Time passes easy before the weight of the café crushes me. I use the bathroom. Coming out, a man who looks like Tommy Chong is staring at me; he says I look like a long-lost friend, one of the best people he ever met. I laugh, I wink, and I tell him I am too. 
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The hour is late and my legs are getting weak; I’ve been walking all day. I go into the subway to get warm and consider taking the train to anywhere, but I’m scared I’ll fall asleep if I stop moving. I stumble outside, I blink my eyes, I relish the cold in my face. 
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On the library stairs, a stranger stops to commend me for smoking. Don’t let the assholes tell you what to do he says, giving his fist a pump. I answer with don’t tread on me and it’s time to bump knuckles. I take a long drag as he ambles away. Days that start bad often get better. 
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I’m not cut out for the social life; too tiring. I prefer to walk the streets for hours on end than have to make a conversation. So that’s what I do. Scared of people, I march with my hands in my pockets, collar up against the wind, I pass steel-shuttered doors. I listen to the train overhead. 
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14th Street is less lively than I’m used to, nearly dead. A few tourists make the most of a holiday they paid for or put on credit. I have to piss, and this isn’t the place to consider it. But I take advantage of the tranquility; I unbutton my fly on a shuttered business. Hot steam rises into the air. 
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The closer I get to Times Square the thicker the horde becomes. It reminds me of every fair, carnival and small town street festival I’ve ever seen. The only difference here is the sheer amount of people flooding the street; all of them looking for memories. A six-storey screen bathes us in red light 
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You can’t play me like that…I’ll fuck you up says the disgruntled client in front of me. Like a wrathful god, he slams his fist on the counter. It shakes from the force; products rattle. Though the clerk is calm, unfazed. This is his mettle. I wait my turn in line to buy a seltzer. 
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The gym-bro across the aisle loses his temper when the seat won’t recline. I stifle my laughter thinking full gorilla mode. A moment later, when he’s lightly grazed by the backpack of what I take for a limp-wristed playwright, he mutters I’ll fucking kill you with so much hate I shudder. He sits beside his twelve-year-old son. 
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I type until the caffeine makes it impossible to sit still, and I begin to feel lightheaded. I know I need to eat but can’t be bothered to help myself. The amount of effort it takes to sustain oneself is often burdensome. I’m fit to starve for the ease with which it’d come. It’s modern, sedentary, and terribly chic. 
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From the bottom of the escalator I hear excitement at the top. On surface level I spy three sun-drenched bums cutting up lines on a ledge near the window. Beautiful day outside but it’s snowing in the metro. They stop to eye me as I pass. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good nine-thirty a.m. 
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The dollarstore clerk looks good with red lipstick. Her blue eyes shine telling me what I owe. Our hands touch as she gives me my change. My gaze lingers longer than it should, but she doesn’t break it until the line begins to grumble. I leave with a wink, her husky voice calls out suivant / next. 
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This is the year I make it. A vow I’ve been reciting since I was a kid. First day of school and there I was swearing this would be the year I stopped being a loser, girls would like me, and they’d all forget that time I pissed my pants. I’ve always been delusional 
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I drink hot coffee and write. I eat the lunch I didn’t have then for dinner now. It tastes off but it’s easier than preparing something else. Outside the wind is colder than expected. Huddled in a piss-stained corner I smoke a cigarette. I haven’t always been alone. 
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I smoke a cig on the stoop of a storefront, plywood’s covered the entrance for two winters, pigeon shit-stains under my feet. My bag hangs on a makeshift handle to save my back the strain. When the bus rolls up I’m the first to get on. I fall into a seat and it’s all giving in from this moment on. The road is a river and I’m floating along. 
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I walk in the door feeling awful, I’m weak, nauseous, sweating. I drop my laundry bag on the floor; it falls. I strip out of my work clothes, I replace them with polyester gym shorts. The room spins as I stumble to the couch. I pull a heavy blanket over my head. I’m scared, there’s no one to call. 
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I wave down the bus in the center of rue Notre-Dame. Stepping on I fold my hands in prayer and bow to the driver. Humble myself, I’m smaller than everything. In a folding seat designed to accommodate wheelchairs I drop down. People stare at screens, headphones in their ears, it’s all an illusion. 
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Sitting at my desk I’m content in my bravery. I used to be meek in the face of danger, but the years have changed me, turned my skin to leather. I’m proud of who I’ve become, even if one of these days it’s going to get me into trouble, stop my chest from moving up and down. I type with a smile. 
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Leaning against the café I smoke a cig, it tastes like shit and I wash it down with hot espresso. Smiling couples pass in winter coats open to the sun. They remind me of easy afternoons, a love lost. Two women in black clothes that move with the breeze exit and roll their eyes as they see me. I hang my head, I’ll never be good enough. 
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The rotten stink of fish coming from a giant box reminds me of my youth and a job long gone. Shuffling in front of the building I smoke as the air bites my skin with icey teeth, but I’m numb. My mind is two weeks from now, this city and life are far behind. I’m sleeping late, the bed is warm. 
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I mention it’s nice to see someone happy. Yeah…I’m normally not…who likes to work? She’s preaching to the choir. Something wrong with those ones…fucked in the head. She says hell yeah and I ruin the moment sliding my money across the counter, reminding us both, this is only capitalism. 
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In the middle of the laundromat tears flow. I gather my coats, a cigarette will help. Flame flicks, I inhale as the employee comes out to say my dryer stopped. I beg her to put another quarter in. I apologize for being me. I pass her a coin.  Her hands are smooth and her eyes are worried. 
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Running for the bus brings me joy. Eight hundred metres. My blood will pump. My lungs will burn. I’ll be blessed with a faintness of mind; freedom. Because the empty apartment and shitty job, the artistic failure, they all disappear when it’s nothing but one foot in front of the other. 
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On the express to Lionel-Grioulx a beautiful woman turns her back to me. My cologne is sour sweat with hints of paint thinner. I must disgust her; why not? I do myself. An older lady ends a conversation and I notice the contact is named sexy Marc. There’s hope. Off the bus I start running. 
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Outside junkies beg but my pockets are empty. This country is going nowhere. The streets are overrun with drug addicts, criminals, and an ever-growing homeless population. Landlords are greedy. Grocery stores rob us. Taxes rise. Radicalization is a very fine line. Happy holidays. 
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From bed the building is peaceful. Sounds of the streets rise, of course. But there’s no murmur of voices  in the corridor, there’s no one at the bottom of the stairs wailing on an acoustic guitar. I don’t have to get dressed. I’m able to relax. I scratch the hair below my navel. 
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I’m floating away. Isn’t bad only bizarre. Being out here in the dark riding a wave I don’t see, but feel I’m on the crest of. I lived like this before. Though then I had the shield of my youth. Now I’m twisted by experience. I have to learn to live again. 
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Winter at the windows I stare in the mirror. The gods haven’t seen fit to strike me down; yet. All that exists is now. Stumble along the path I’ve been following since I don’t remember. I could wonder where I’ll finish, but every ending is the same. I’ll  worry later. For now I’ll have a cigarette. 
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The bus is on time. The card reader’s busted and I sit at the back beside a cute brunette. I sneak a look at the shape of her legs in tight black jeans. Small things go a long way. Time and circumstance made a pervert of me. Factories outside breathe smoke into the air. 
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Door locked behind me because I can’t trust the neighbours I stand out front of the building. All the snow still rests on top of telephone lines, branches and street signs. It looks like a holiday card, a fake village theme park, the set of a  movie. I light a cigarette. When I exhale I can’t tell what’s breath or smoke, if this is real or not. 
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On the way home I cut through a hole in a chain link fence, climb a mountain of snow on the edge of a parking lot. At the top a young boy eyes me cautiously, snow shovel in his hand held like he’s waiting for a pitch. Behind the grocery store a rat disappears in a drift. I hope it finds some place warm. 
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When I kick the emergency exit open it hits a punk in the head. Before he has a chance to say oof I blast the klaxon in his face. He gathers his blankets but not fast enough. Next time you wake to a blade I threaten. He runs down the stairs. The world taught me to be mean. 
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I break down and leave the apartment. Wandering through Saint-Henri with no destination in mind rue Notre-Dame goes by slowly. At the café I drink a latte in lieu of eating. I smoke a cig out front. I enjoy my time like I often can’t. Back home I remove my clothes; I lie in bed 
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Under an awning I smoke a cigarette out of the rain. People clutch umbrellas. The lights in the bookstore across the street go  dark. I feel someone looking at me. Humans are black silhouettes in the café windows. Streetlights glisten yellow on the pavement. I exhale. 
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I have bad days. Hours when I wish The End was breathing down my neck. But I always know that something’s out there waiting for me to come along and find it. Places to be seen and people to meet, to learn from. Life isn’t over yet. I’ll waste some more time. 
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Yesterday’s puddles are patches of ice this morning. Wind finds it way down my collar, tightens the skin across my chest. I hate it but crave it. Geese pick at the grass and I holler for them to start flying south. They look at me the same way she did in the end, like everything I ever did was wrong. 
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The first turn of the pedals, first bite of wind cuts through my layers, carves lines in my face. There go my looks. When I push harder nature does too. I imagine the valves of my heart exploding, dying here while the crows caw overhead. Not bad. 
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Red light gives the living room an aura I like to wake into. Jeans in a pile on the floor, I clutch them and rush down the stairs. The only reason I afford this place is I’ve been here so long. This city was a haven for artists. Soon we’re all going to starve. Oh well, it’s good for my work, how about yours? 
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In a café I often forget about the waitress brings me water and a coffee, she smiles when I ask  for a napkin. I use it to wipe sesame seeds from the tabletop. Eating a bagel puts them all back. On the stereo Bob Hite sings he’s going up the country. I stare out the window, I’ll stay right here. 
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Spilled holiday candy on the sidewalk and I hear last night’s grief, the laughter of friends. I’m reminded of when I could hold my alcohol, went out every weekend, had a bar I called my own. Now I spend my time with books and people in other cities connected by words on a screen. Is that all we are?  
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I order a slice of pizza and eat it leaning on a counter. Two men watch Al-Jazeera in the corner with the sound so loud voices crackle. Neither of them say a word. I toss my plate in the trash, wait as three beautiful women with covered heads come through the door. Outside I see my breath 
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I drop off my bag, pick up another, heavier one. Off to the laundromat like every week. The only date I’ve got. An older married woman who works there, she eats a sandwich while I write. We both have our rituals. At the end of the night she’ll return to her husband. I make do with silence. 
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I’m not ready to get up. I hesitate for as long as I‘m able, a few moments. No sitting around, too much to do and not enough time. I crouch at the foot of the bed pulling on socks. I grab my phone. I climb down the ladder. Today I meet my fate like every other. 
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Modern life, it’s boring, I’m never made to prove myself. I crave more! I don’t need violence, all I want is a challenge. Religious sects have fasts, endless bullshit. But what does secular society offer us looking to chastise ourselves? Nothing, follow along as we’re demanded. So I write. 
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Feeling weak I stumble into a rack of clothes; they fall. The latté I drank didn’t fill me. Outside I smoke in the sun avoiding the eyes of a woman beggar. I slip on headphones, they connect with my phone. I sing, I dance. I wish you were here to see me be the fool. 
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I smoke looking across an intersection I could draw with my eyes shut. I’d like to sell everything I own, move to Paris, New York or Prague. Maybe this feeling would escape me, but I doubt it, crosses are made to carry wherever you go. I miss her arms around me. 
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At the dep there’s fifteen youths wearing leather jackets, hair glued in spikes and tattoos on their faces. In line to buy beer they growl at one another. The clerk looks terrified. I pluck a bottle of Perrier from a cooler and stand behind two girls with bright coloured hair, strong body odour. I remember my youth, young love, I smirk. 
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Hot water feels good, I don’t want to step out but I must. I have writing to do before the clock ticks down and I need to leave. Fucking money…they have us by the balls! To eat or keep a place to sleep then it’s get down on one knee, give up a little spirit. That’s what makes us all the same. 
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Lately I wake excited. It’s like something big is going to happen and for once it won’t feel like a kick. Though the voice in my head is a pessimist. What’s the point? Why bother? You’re a loser it screams. I laugh in its face, because every day is a chance.
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I practice French. The coffee brews. As my computer stares I roll a joint. Sitting here, thick smoke filling the apartment, I feel like the world is coming together. From this old chair I can tackle anything. The problems arise when I step away, toward reality. That’s when I start to stumble. 
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I pass the day smoking and reading in bed. As the sun sets I give into hunger. I pour blood down the drain, mixed with tap water it brightens before swirling away. I fry ground veal and onions. I eat it with bread and cheese hunched over a table I built for two. At least there aren’t many dishes any longer.
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I’ve run out of coffee. Damnit, now I’m forced into a café with all the petite bourgeoise fucks. Oh well, that’s city life, stooping to the level of those that look down on me. I get dressed. Two coats. A little money in my pocket. After I’ll ride the metro to feel less alone.
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I wake early though I don’t have to. I’d like to sleep until the sun is high, but that’s impossible. It’s a disgrace I’m unable to suffer. Because I’ve conditioned myself to keep time like a clock, and in my chest move gears. I stretch toward the sky before it comes to get me; a ritual. 
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I rush through the door shivering, it’s warmer in here; barely. The sun sets so god damned early, this is the season of long nights and I have to be tough in the face of loneliness, the cold, and the bitter, never-ending dark. I shower. I smile. I drink cheap coffee and write. 
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The alarm stops. I exercise, shower, smoke a cigarette so I can sit in front of the computer. There…that’s better…back in the saddle again…I sigh. I’ll go to work feeling good about myself. I won’t have to carry the guilt of not doing what I love. The act itself is all the motivation I need. 
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I stand, weave, I shake my head. My ear clears a little but not much. I begin to worry. Maybe the problem is worse than neglect, perhaps millions of tiny dust mites are eating away at the inside of my skull, poised to break through my face. Good luck finding love after that. 
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Smoking is all I have left. No drugs. No booze. I’ve become the kind of man I made fun of. Like a crystal ball I saw myself in them. I knew what was coming. A life of solitude. A monk with no order. The laughter of my youth wasn’t even mine, it belonged to the future. 
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I undress in the kitchen. Long underwear peels from my skin. I sigh. I scratch at my calves. Dry skin flakes off, blood under my nails. I look out the windows at stars in the sky. It’s early for night and the apartment is cold. I can raise the heat, but without someone here I’ll never be warm. 
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When the jitters push I move. I prepare coffee and smoke while it brews. I rush up to the apartment. Got to busy the mind, or else it floats to thoughts of loneliness and death, and finding someone to help me forget them both. So I write a short story. I get what I want in the end…just kidding. 
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I start the coffee. Outside the street is quiet and empty and still. The air is warm, humid, I undo my jacket. I’ll gladly miss a thousand nights for a single morning like this, before the city wakes, before it wipes the sleep from its eyes and I’m the only one out. All downhill from here.
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Ok, this is going to be easy. Make it through the horrible hours. Return to where I am now. My glorious bed. How many of us race through our days with nothing more than that in sight, a place where the terrors of being alive are forgotten? I toss the blankets from my body, I remember. 
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Leaves and twigs litter the path. Crows caw from bare trees. The canal is calm, it looks like the sky, if not a little ragged. I imagine hearing its call, giving in to the coolness, all in the pursuit of knowing what it feels like to fly. Life is often spent fighting urges. 
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Lately, when I walk the halls early in the morning, I’ve been getting the creeps. I’m always alone. And all it takes is a single unruly crackhead to stab me, rifle through my pockets for nothing, to spit on me as I die there looking up. Grim. But I keep returning. 
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Sitting on a curb in my work clothes I smoke a cig. Cold from the ride home but small pleasures are what I live for. This’ll be the sweetest moment today. I have vices, and my writing, though without a little company they’re pale. Speaking of which, the nearly full moon laughs above. 
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I rush along rue Notre-Dame, it’s still, the only people out are homeless, joggers and employees heading to open the cafés and bistros. In the park dog owners breath can be seen from a distance, their beasts run in fallen leaves orange and red as I shiver. Hands in my pockets I stop for a coffee. It helps. 
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In the park I find a bench. I smoke a cigarette thinking of loneliness, the bed I made. It’s not bad. I work. But as couples pass I crave other comforts. I miss waking beside a woman, a soft voice recounting last night’s dream. Soon it’ll be cold and my apartment is empty. 
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Under a streetlight I smoke a cigarette. And as people pass so close I feel so far away. Nights like tonight are when I notice myself slipping. I’ve fallen over the edge of the boat and there’s nothing to grip on to, my arms flail, no one hears me scream above the sea. I smile at a woman; she looks away. 
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I shower and dress; start coffee. Outside loud bass booms. I stand in the middle of rue Acorn and look towards downtown, bright against the predawn sky. A car by the men’s mission, taillights glow red, it vibrates with the tempo. I miss moments I’ll never live again. 
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Out front of work I get off my bike. Two cops walking the block eye me up. I’m in the basement when I hear the door open, see boot clad feet at the top of the stairs. He asks in French what I’m doing, why I’m here, I fit a description. I laugh when I tell him he’s a joke. I’m whistle clean.
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I lose myself in the work. Images repeated until they blur. All I see are imperfections, lint in the design, pinholes in the screen leaving ink where it shouldn’t, giving rise to client complaints. I learned a long time ago the best way to be left to your thoughts is to be good at what you do. So I am. 
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The corridor smells like paint and cigarettes. A group of wanna be vampire junkies crowd the bottom of the stairs. One covers himself with a blanket, and from where I’m standing it looks like he’s jacking off. I say fuck it and they all turn to look. There are easier ways out of this building. 
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Colder than expected I regret not wearing another coat, but I’ll warm up in the metro, all those bodies tight. I walk quicker. Crossing the tracks a man eyes me up, wagering if I’m worth it. I don’t like the feeling. Society is crumbling. I have to start carrying a knife. 
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I stop to smoke a cig. Standing off to the side of the crowd I feel good, translucent, and I admit a little loneliness suits me. Maybe I’m better this way, freedom to move, no one to answer to. It’s been so long I forgot. I’m not used to it yet, but I will be. My eyes follow a woman down the block. 
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Most of the shops are closed. A fire truck passes lights on no siren. Groups of people stumble by laughing, it’s Friday night and they got somewhere to be; I don’t. So I stop in a doorway to smoke a cigarette. On the way home I take photos. Bums sleep on picnic tables in Parc Sir George-Étienne-Cartier. 
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It’s been months since the cat got in. A stray. It taunts me. I heard it last night coming home, I put my key in the lock, scurrying on the other side. Like a cockroach it was gone when I turned on the lights, it abhors them. I’ll destroy the beast one of these days. If it ever comes out of the shadows. 
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In the dep across from the metro I pour a coffee. C’est tout the clerk asks; I point at some cookies on the counter. Un biscuit…le chocolat. With tongs he places one in a white paper sleeve. I give him four dollars and get one twenty-five in return. I drop the bag in the trash, another falls on the floor. The universe is equal. 
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I wake to another day. I can do this. They’re not bad. Returning from New York I was scared of being alone, of having no one to talk to. I became accustomed to following her around like a dog. Sure I miss her, but I’ve been good. I’m enjoying what I was afraid of. Doing nothing if it’s not for me. 
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I’m sure my life has passed me by. I’m old and grey and no woman will love me again. No riches wait for people like me, only small rooms rife with rodents, bugs, a landlord who prefers I die. Then they can raise the rent. You can count on that, same as I’ll keep writing. 
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On rue Sainte-Catherine I smoke. An old bum comes limping up. You got any change…I’m trying to get some food. I say no while fingering two dollars in my pocket. I like your jacket…army surplus he asks while touching my shoulder. Of course. He holds up his fist, we bump knuckles. I miss him when he walks away. 
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Peaceful morning until the woman who’s been living in the stairwell starts yelling. The walls and the echo distort her voice. I can’t make out a word. It doesn’t sound good, like she woke up on the wrong side of the cardboard. A dog starts barking. So does its owner. It’s hard to ignore, I’m doing alright. 
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The old bum snores under the stairs, turns over on her cardboard bed as the door slams. She’s seen better days and this a society where no one cares. Grandmothers rot on the streets. Others eat fillet mignon. I hold my breath against the stench of piss. In my apartment I pour the coffee, I roll the joint, I get to work, I forget. 
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The cold gets through all my layers. Gloves still damp from last night’s rain I ride no handed, tuck them under my arms. The path is littered with sticks, branches, puddles, I swerve. I could use a busted hand, time to myself, but not as bad as I need the money to get away. So I take care. 
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Red light bathes me. Phone on the ground I silence the alarm. Double check the time because I don’t want to believe it’s really now, but it is. Swaddled in blankets I search for my things; jeans, a t-shirt, socks. With everything in hand I ditch the warmth for another chance to feel alive. Rejoice. 
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I’d like to give up my comforts. Rely on as little as possible. That’s what being on the road has taught me, I need less than I have. As long as there’s coffee, cigarettes, headphones, a place to sit and write, then I’ve got it all. I lamented my return, but location isn’t important, and life is good no matter where I am. 
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I get out of bed. Now that I’m home I return to my routine. No more walking to the deli for coffee, or sitting in front the Romanian church smoking while she sleeps, and early risers hurry to the subway. No more sitting in that kitchen typing as a cat stares on. Time to work so I can do it again.  
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When I wake the lights are on. The bus is pulling off the highway. A rest stop in the middle of nowhere, same as in Delaware a couple days ago. I smoke a cigarette by the door. I use the free wifi to message her even though I know she’s asleep. I think about her kiss outside of Dekalb St. I’ll remember that when I’m alone. 
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Sitting on my backpack I smoke a joint. A video screen lights up my face with images of the filthy rich. The glaze of alcohol blurs the eyes of those that pass. Heavily armed cops block off a street though a sign on a post reads this is a gun free zone.  I exhale a cloud of smoke. My bus is delayed by an hour. 
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Ranchera music plays loudly. The subway shakes the tracks overhead. A woman scolds her son in Spanish, another pushes a cart loaded with sliced mangoes. People move like a breeze while I stand stone still. I bite into a chicken empanada; steam escapes. An empty apartment waits for my return. 
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I sit on the steel stairs and smoke. A security guard stands on the corner. I watch young people on their way to whatever school is close by. Same thing all over. It doesn’t matter if I’m in Baltimore or Queens or even Montréal, we’ve given up our free will, while swearing we haven’t. 
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After pissing in the White Castle parking lot I buy four joints, smoke one by the subway. Her and I message. She tells me she hopes I’m all right, I left in a fugue. I say that I am even though I’m not sure. I smoke a cigarette and take the train. 
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I go in the smoke shop. She needs things from CVS. I check my phone, respond to messages while I wait. I stand on the corner staring out into the intersection of five streets. I could sprint like a gazelle when the next bus comes. Tears cloud my eyes. An NYPD officer stares at me, she chews her gum like a horse. 
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I’ve been worried for a bit, that I’m not seeing straight. I’m having a hard time. The world is coming untangled around me, every human interaction is muddled, clouded by a fog thicker than it’s ever been. I have to work faster. Time is always short. 
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At least it’s easy to type. The circumstances are to blame. A different city. I’m reeling with exhaustion. I’m a mess and I feel like a fool. But I take a step back to remind myself these are the juicy days of life, times I’ll remember better than those that were easy. When it’s tough as leather, all I can do is chew. 
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I stop on a meridian I remember because of a kiss. A middle-aged man hobbles up from the subway. He asks for a smoke, I say I don’t have any. He sits down and starts yabbering. I give him the end of my joint. He puffs out his cheeks and says good shit. I wish him an easy night. I walk slow feeling lost. 
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Two junkies beg out front of a diner. The cook opens a small window and passes them a container of hot fries. They stuff their mouths with delight, I smile, all is not lost, there’s still some heart left in the world. They devour their meal on the sidewalk. I have enough money to go inside. 
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The day is a bore until the old thief comes by, tells stories. He blathers on about a family that lost it all. I don’t have a clue. But I nod along like I did with my old man, he spoke of people in the village, his past. I never cared about the subject. I was happy he chose me to listen, same as I am now. 
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In the middle of the street I fart, a loud squealer. I light a cigarette, take a drag. Another long, hard day. The shirts never stop and they are my master. Laughing I become aware of where I am, and sitting in their window looking good is the neighbour downstairs. No need to wonder if they heard, their face says it all. 
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Ok ok…I’m feeling better…less manic…I’m not cursing the day first thing. This one lasted. They’re getting worse…the fits…the episodes. I don’t know how long I can hold them off, keep them in check before I do something stupid. The other morning I became a beast, embarrassed myself, what’s new? 
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A pair of rats scurry toward me, change direction, head for the trash. I smoke a joint. Two women drink coffee and chat at a table. I watch the old bum with an eyepatch piss against a wall as lovers go by on dates. The palm reader’s light flashes in her window. I wonder if she’s taking clients this late. 
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I get up. I walk rue Notre-Dame. People with smiles on their faces, why not? The weather is perfect for sitting on a patio with friends, eating dinner, or lying in the grass watching the stars fight their way from the twilight. I go home and have dinner, I sleep, I hope I feel better when I wake. 
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Bad day. I rotate between choking back tears and wanting to go to sleep forever. Miguel uses me to practice his english. I look away as he asks basic questions. Tears burn my eyes as I answer, but I want to help, he’s a long way from home, and I’d like him to feel at ease. Yeah man…I fucking love rock and roll. 
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I always end up where I’m supposed to be; in front of the computer, working away at my novel. A few more pages. All I have to do is live out a fantasy, a lifelong dream. This is the reward of writing, I tell my story any way I please. It gives me control. I laugh. I’m out of it. 
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I see tracers as I place shirts on the boards, so I double check them all. I laugh as the world melts around me, I lean into it, people pay good money for this kind of kick. Twisted is better than straight. But is it a migraine, a flashback or a stroke? I’m so tired I don’t care. 
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Ok…here we go…I can do this even if I roll from bed feeling sick…woozy…head reeling from lack of sleep. Anyone with a dash of sense would give in to the warnings being issued by their body…I must be all out…because still I hear the keyboard call. I haven’t much time. It’s always ticking. 
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I devour a croissant walking to the métro. Running to catch the train I’m careful with my coffee. Downtown I smoke in the sun. Sunday morning people come and go. From an empty doorway it’s easy to feel like I’m apart from them all, but I’m not. We’re the same. We got nowhere to go. 
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I shiver though it’s sunny. So I hustle to the metro. I place my card in the guichet and paw at the buttons. Two rides seven dollars. Hardly affordable and the machine won’t accent my money, it spits out my coins. Bah…maudit…fuck this. I hit cancel, hop the turnstile, I always follow the signs. 
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Turning my key in the lock I sigh. Long week pushing ink and doing as I’m told. When I walk in the door I’m ready to shut the blinds and pull the blankets over my head. But that’s the easy way out. Instead I shower and dress and put on cologne for no reason, I smoke a cigarette. The end is here. I have the time to write. I exhale. 
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I wake up to a cold apartment but I don’t mind. It’s good for me. It keeps me young, fresh. So instead of getting out of bed I lie there sucking in cool air. I throw off the blankets and revel in the way it tightens my skin, I feel alive, but something tickles the back of my throat, a voice whispers in my ear. I don’t know what I’m living for. 
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I touch my stomach.There’s muscle where fat once was. I regret the years I passed lazy, drunk, depressed. I remember hating myself so much, have I changed, perhaps not? Why else did I pick up smoking again, drive off the ones who care, if not for self-destruction than what? I smile. 
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I stand there until a clock tells me it’s time to get going. I take my pay and tell everyone to have a good night. I feel better when I step up over the frame of my bike, sit down on the seat  and pedal away. More space between me and here the better. I’m ‘free’ until I return.
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I walk home from la gare d’autocars. On rue Sainte-Catherine junkies eye me like predators do prey. Bums sleep under the awning of an expensive department store. Across the street a woman falls from a rented bike and groans. I wait out the rain smoking a cig, watching it all. Sunday morning. 
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I remove a cig from my pack on the table, find my keys in her purse. Sitting on a curb outside as she sleeps upstairs I admire the darkness before making a flame. A car comes up the block, I sit still, hide the heater behind my haunches. Headlights make night into day. I’m nothing but a shadow. 
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It’s hotter than it should be for the sun being set. The air is so thick it’s hard to lift my lighter to the tip of my cigarette, but I do. I listen to the city, a hum persists, like the blood in my veins it never stops. I exhale white smoke and watch it float away. One day we will too 
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My lineage is long. I’m every labourer who ever toiled. All I’m missing is a thermos of coffee, my lunchbox packed with last night’s dinner. Dad always had a feast. His wife said he needed a big meal working in the factory. He came home bragging he didn’t do a thing. My body aches when I walk in the door. 
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Sweat dribbles down my back, collects in the band of my underwear, soaks through my pants; it itches. The radio dj says the heat might break records. I can’t breathe. I plug one nostril and snort over the sink for relief. I don’t wash the discharge down the drain. I’m living the dream. 
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A timepiece in every pocket. Enslavement and we pay for the luxury. A theory no one wants to listen to. I should give up on society, find a clandestine operation, join its ranks. Develop an even bigger grudge. Take it out on companies, the government, the rich. This is the paragraph they’ll read at my trial. 
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I light a cigarette, let it dangle between my fingers. The weeks are long and I’m getting old. But all we can do is meet them as they come, until we fall. A reddish brown squirrel approaches. Got nothing for you little fella I say with a smile. It turns on its haunches and runs up a tree. 
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Music booms from a new bar. The restaurant next door has a full patio. Across the street an empty théâtre boasts an à louer sign. This borough has changed since I moved here, so has my life. I look back smiling to when these streets were empty, and something sweet was turning sour. Flowers die; others bloom. 
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