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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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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? 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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? 
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. 
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?  
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 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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.
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.  
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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? 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
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. 
Electricity and the phone and the internet and the god damned rent too. It all comes crashing at once. I think I’m getting ahead and the vultures swoop, scavenge the corpse of my wallet and leave me with less than I’m due, all for the luxury of getting by in the world. The ‘American Dream’ is bondage with a smile. 
Alarm goes off I silence it. I look around. Oh yeah, here I am again, my bed my room my job my life. This is where all the years of being a fuck up get you. A rundown man in a rundown building. No escape in sight. My only hopes are called long shots, dreaming in colour. Still, I believe. 
Downstairs neighbour has his lights on. I see him but I’m not keen on reciprocation. Last thing I need is him thinking I’m a sick pervert, a predawn peeper. He’s apt to come out, start trouble. I would. So I slink into the shadows. I allow them to eat me. 
I make it to the post office before the rain, there’s a line; it moves quickly. I show a barcode and the young man working asks for a piece of ID. I flash my passport, he stops, cocks his head and says oh…hello. I laugh. At the door I see the storm I was trying to avoid. Of course. 
I put on boots and jean jacket. Walk quickly because it’s cool. The old man working the dep takes his time refilling the Slim Jim display. A woman in front of me groans, doesn’t know the dance, it requires patience. He drops the salty meat a second time. We’re going to be here awhile. 
Plants grow from cracks in the sidewalk, the foundation. I’m  convinced it’s the flora that smells of piss as I ask the sky how long until the place is condemned, torn down for condos? More fake millionaires, the borough already teems with them. It’s hard to get a place to sit in the park. Where will I go? 
I don’t rush from bed, no chance. Instead I lie there unmoving, enjoying the cool morning air. As summer comes to an end I listen to the city through open windows. No movement, it sleeps. I should be doing the same but I have writing to do, and the urge to type is greater than slumber. I stand. 
He rambles about money as I prepare a coffee. You look like you got a license, a miserable law abiding Swede, I borrowed a car, all you gotta do is drive. I shake my head, he paces. He’s certain cops don’t see me. He’s right, they look right though. In an instant I could change my life, but I don’t, not today.
I stop my phone from buzzing. Not as light as it was a few weeks ago upon waking. Soon I’ll be having my first cig of the day in darkness. Cold wind whipping down rue Acorn, no thanks. But what is winter in Québec if not rough on body, spirit, mind? Diamonds are ground into beauty, so are we.
I take a hot shower, towel off, get dressed in last night’s clothes. Same motions as yesterday, tomorrow as well. I remove a cigarette from the pack on the table, hold it gently. Outside the city is as quiet as my sister’s farm. I sit on the curb, relax, not another chance until tonight. I exhale. I go inside and write.
I notice a new grouping of tents behind the tree line. A few months ago I saw Parcs Canada go in with a back hoe, tear down the small community that sprouted up there. I wonder if they were taught how to destroy the hope of the poor when they took the job, was it there in the description? 
I think of afternoons on my sister’s porch. No sounds beside the wind and horses whinnying in the pasture, crows in the trees. A tranquil place to return to as a siren wails below my apartment window on its way to a tragedy. Deep breath, there, I’m back again. 
Standing out front the bookstore she says it’s sad I have more friend in New York than I do here. It is. What’ve I done to myself? Pushed them all away. I find solace in philosophy. I watch the waves from the shore. We smoke cigarettes, an old man begs for change, we give him what we have. 
In an alley I drink an espresso, I smoke a cigarette, I watch a group people in country western gear. A literal brute with the arms of his plaid shirt ripped off, muscles showing. These meatheads could go violent in a second, and anyone who looks different is bound to be stomped into the pavement. I move into the shadows. 
I eat dinner. I go for a walk as a breeze cools down the city. A perfect night. Better spent around a campfire with old friends. Laughter and beer and talk of old times, new times, what we thought would happen, what actually did. Hard to believe I ever wrote a word. Tonight I watch my borough from a stoop. 
I’m scared. Normally it’s read my piece and hide in the crowd. But this is involved, I’m the host. In the city I live. An opportunity to fail with people I know in the crowd. That’s what I like about New York, a couple days later I’m back on the bus, see ya later…maybe never. Panic grips my spine. 
Waiting for my train he sits down close, then inches closer. Hand nearly on my shoulder he humble brags into his phone, something wrong with his breathing he whinnies. I get the vibe he’s at the station looking for men and it’s up to me to make a move. I gather my things, I fall asleep on my way out of town. 
We’re short a dollar he says and her disappointment is epic. I count what I have and give all I don’t need. The look on her dried-apple doll face reminds of old  junkie Carlos, hot dogs and fries were enough to change his life for the better, we should all be so lucky. I like when the cookie is heated she tells me, soft and chewy. Me too. 
I wake up early. Small window lets in hazy light. I check my phone for the time, not even seven, oh well. What sleep in the face of a primal urge? I piss on the side of the bowl to stifle the splash. In the tiny bedroom I sit on a bunk. I open my laptop. The day is still. 
A small street lined with cottages even smaller. Sand dusts the faded concrete in front of the house same as it did back then. I take a photo embedded with memories. The times weren’t what they call high, but I smile. An easy walk to the beach, I’d stare across the lake and know it wasn’t forever, I wasn’t trapped, I could see the future. 
The day rolls by like clouds in the sky. Sitting on the deck I watch small waves sparkle in the distance; I’m mesmerized. Swallows whip through the air, Blue Herons call from the reeds, a Kingfisher scans the canal for lunch. I breathe fresh air thinking of the life I’ll go back to. Cars and yelling and dog shit covering the streets, I miss it. 
The city is silent. I breathe it in with the smoke from my cig. I have so much to do before I leave. Can I slow down my heart rate, make reality move like molasses in January? I’ve heard stories, ancient monks, mind over matter. We’ve become stupid stupid creatures. 
A hooker strolls through the intersection like cars aren’t honking. Her shoulders so far back I think of sandy beaches, a roaring fire, a limbo stick; she moves like a zombie. Eyelids flutter as she lies down in front of a pizza parlour, cigarette between her lips. There, there…sleep tight little angel, I wish I could make it better.  
The day drags. I’m getting old and all my coworkers come from places where jobs are scarce, they work hard, they keep me on my toes. Because if the boss thinks I’m not worth my wage I’m out on my ass. No matter where we’re from we worry all the same. I push ink through a screen to eat tonight. 
I held a grudge, gave him a hard time for not being the father I wanted, but I was never a very good son. I should’ve tried harder, burrowed my way into his life. Instead I let his wife push me away. Now I’m in a city where I don’t know a soul and it’s too late to go back. I run for the bus, it pulls off without me. 
Along rue Notre-Dame I walk slow, no rush. A homeless woman with blue hair stomps through the park barking like a dog, princess printed on her shirt. In a greek restaurant I order food. The waiter says I sound like un vrai français. Get the fuck out of here I laugh. It’s Saturday night, the whole city smiles. 
Smoking cigarettes on the loading dock we decide to stay in, rent an old movie. Fireworks over downtown and I think the city is on fire. In my apartment we sit on the couch until Charlton Heston yells it’s made of people. I wait while she gets ready for bed, last night in town. I fall asleep knowing tomorrow I’ll do it alone. 
In an art gallery basement we take pics of ourselves in a mirror. Outside the humidity is so heavy it’s hard to walk up the base of Mont Royal. At a dollar store she tries on sunglasses. I take her to  Antep Kabob, we eat chicken sandwiches. The rain they called for never came. 
Think of good things. Like heading home to her. Yeah…that’s it, revel in the present. Because soon she’ll leave and it’ll be me and the walls and the shadows and that damn stray cat who stalks them, staying out of eyesight, always laughing. One day I’ll teach it who’s boss. 
In the park that used to be an empty lot full of trash we wander through wildflowers. Side by side we lie in a hammock under the moon and it feels like I’m not alone. I can ask her for help. We take photos to remember the time and the place. 
I got something for you and your big mouth. I know the routine. He’ll produce a ball peen hammer from his bag, threaten to crush my skull, big joke. But out comes a tomahawk steak which he wields like medieval weapon. I dodge his attack while puffing a joint; another day at the office. 
She comes out of the portapotty hunched. The last time I saw her she was stomping through the park with her face dyed blue like a demon from a Fulci film. Can I look in your sunglasses…fix my hair she asks with a voice that sounds like cigarettes. I lean forward. She straightens her bangs. Perfect she says before walking away. I agree. 
At the café I order an espresso. I light a cigarette across the street. Sitting on a ledge in the sun I watch people come and go, I listen to conversations I’m not a part of, I smile. If I wasn’t so busy I could rest here a while, I could become a rock, a tree, a pile of ash. Nothing would please me more. 
The wind pushes against me. I should take it as a sign to text the boss I’m not coming in. If he asks I’ll give a flimsy excuse, I’ve got five hundred, but I don’t, because the voice in my head whispers you can use the money…the rent is always due. I pump my legs. They got us by the balls. 
Mr Ho asks why I leave early. I tell I’m lazy and he nods his head agreeing. I place my bike on the sidewalk. As I pedal away a breeze blows warm air but it’s better than nothing. I’m engaged in something easy, something free, something that reminds me I’m human. A job is the antithesis. 
On my way home I stop by the train tracks and piss on a fence. A man with a longboard under his arm walks by, takes a peek, I wink and he hurries off faster than he came. I zip up my fly. I follow along. He moves a little faster. I ride high on his fear. I’m a monster and so are you. 
Lights on in the apartment downstairs I avert my eyes. He doesn’t seem like the type to take kindly to strangers peeping in his windows, not many are. I light my cig. The curb I normally sit on is smeared with what looks like canine diarrhea. I’m sure it’s intentional, a warning. The neighbours are conspiring against me. 
The day is nothing but sweat and trouble breathing because the air is thick, it doesn’t move, it’s full of dust; my lungs burn. So when the end finally arrives I’m ecstatic, if not half dead with exhaustion. I rush out the door, there’s a breeze. I taste my freedom on it. 
A woman in filthy sweatpants begs for change as cars wait at the light. Her hair looks like straw and her teeth have gaps when she smiles, hard to do in her situation. Most of us whine in the face of the smallest obstacles. She asks for alms in the midday sun, always saying please. 
On the way home I take photos. If I had another joint I wouldn’t return at all. I’d find a nice place to sit, watch people dolled up for the weekend. It’s what they all long for, and have to make the most of it, or live their lives in regret. I walk back to my apartment. I remove my clothes in silence. 
Printing a cheery design depresses me. It might’ve been better five years ago, when I fell down the stairs, if I’d never gotten up. I could’ve avoided the things that happened, all the people I’ve lost, the feeling of failure that greets me like a lover every morning. I push it away like one you’ve had too long. 
The air is cool. I shiver. That’ll change when I’m slumped over the press like a god damned dummy. I like to think my destiny is the words I type, but there’s as great a chance I’ll die with a squeegee in my hand. It doesn’t matter, I face it all, I eat it up I spit it out, I do it my way. 
Soon she’ll be here. So I count down the days until she arrives. Having something to look forward to goes a long way. Life is often spent in envy of the future, summer, birthdays, retirement. I do my best to live in the moment, but everyone needs a dream. It softens the blows of reality.
Listening to music I enjoy a breeze created by the fan. My life is empty of a lot things since she left, it made a hole in me I didn’t know would open up. But I look at life with different eyes now. So on a hot, sticky morning like today, I’m thankful instead of oblivious to small comforts. I wish for nothing more than what I have. 
On a stoop I watch people come and go. The shining sun. The rush of caffeine and tobacco. A few minutes to oneself. Nothing finer in this life. If I could press pause I would. Bums out front the church start howling like apes, I smile. Summer is a wonderful thing. I return my cup to the café. 
On a small staircase surrounded by graffiti I eat a pain au chocolat, sip coffee. A man parks his car. In French he says he’s here to paint over all the bright colors, start fresh. Ok, ok je reste un instant…une cigarette…alors je pars. He opens a pack of his own. Summer heat hangs in the air. 
At the end of the day I’m giddy. I take my pay running out the door. I ride against the wind but it doesn’t slow me down, I pedal faster, harder. I think of my apartment, the streets, strangers on patios and in parks with smiles on their faces as night falls on all of us. It’s been a long time, but I’m hungry to live. 
I’m aging. Soon I’ll be replaced by someone younger who reminds me of me long ago. I see it coming. It happens to everyone who acquires a skill, hones it, makes it look so easy it becomes a thing of beauty, a dance. Obsolete overnight. Ground down by the wheels of capitalism; we beg for it. 
The same print all day. A five color cartoon heart and cloud drinking strawberry juice boxes, a slogan above. When I finish I’ve seen the words self care is self love three thousand times. It’s burned in my brain even if I don’t subscribe. I ride my bike home in the rain, small rebellions. 
Twelve years ago this district was a ghost town. Nothing but derelict factories full of people on the fringe. It was quiet, a good place to think, then the construction companies came, followed by the middle class. I miss when it was only me and the junkies. Where do they sleep now? 
At home I’m exhausted. I take a shower and put on clothes. Another cig then it’s back upstairs, in front of the computer. I’ll finish my day the same as I start it. Hunched over in this chair, the smell of marijuana heavy, music playing, typing all the things I’ll never say 
Most men my age have hobbies, fishing or beer or sports. All I can think to do is wander, find a bench and give in to the passage of time. I find this pleasing. Better than baseball or mowing a lawn or sitting in a bar. All of these things, they give me the shivers, so I abstain. 
I get out of bed convinced writing is all I’ve got  and everyone I know thinks I’m crazy, tossing a match on my life. But I’ve always did it my way even if it comes to naught. The dreams of an idiot lived out in full colour. Nothing to do now. Sit back, enjoy, fire has always been dazzling. 
I set up the job I’m asked to. When it’s finished I do another. The day passes like this, my body continues, my brain is elsewhere. Summer comes and goes so quickly in this city it’s a waste to spend it toiling. All I’ve ever wanted was escape. How about you? 
In a gravel voice the radio DJ reminds me of the heat. It’s a scorcher out there he says from an air conditioned studio. But I don’t need to be told. Sweat dampens my clothes. I feel faint. My thoughts turn to murder as Hot in the City fills the shop. 
All day long sweat sweat sweat. Pushing ink through a screen I dream of my air conditioner set to full blast. But when I arrive the corridors are dark, emergency lighting only, it’s stifling. I laugh as I peel my shirt from my body, run the shower ice cold.
My coworkers glisten in the smoky air. My jeans heavy with sweat I feel my body cooking, blood in my veins like sludge. How many summers do I have left behind the machine before I’m spent, beaten, what do I do then? I wipe the perspiration from my brow. 
Writing fights the loneliness, but is also the cause. A snake eating its tail. A vicious circle I thought I escaped leaving the village I grew up in. I should’ve listened to my father when he said you can’t run away, but I was full of hope. 
Facing the fountain I smoke a cig, a joint, I read, I watch. I’m the only one of my kind. People my age don’t visit parks alone, we have families, friends, we’re surrounded with love. Or we do the honorable thing, we rot in dark apartments staying up to date on all that streams. What’s wrong with me, where did I go right? 
An Inuit man begs at the bottom of the escalator, I toss him my change. The line to buy tickets from the machine is longer than I want to wait. No one in the booth I step over the turnstile. I’m owed a free ride from time to time. It’s in the contract. You bleed me I bleed you. Eight minutes until the next train. 
In Carré Saint-Louis I use a toilet. Holding my breathe I read the anti-government slogans covering the walls. Walking along une rue piéton I smoke a joint. Passing a terrace a man says I stumbled into a guy with his pants around his ankles, he was furiously masturbating. Every single day is a blessing. 
At the kitchen table I work while chicken cooks. I drink cold brew though I’ve had too much. I write more than I need to. I eat more rice than is recommended, and after a cigarette I feel sick. I pass out on the couch. Let’s hear it for bourgeois society. 
I write with laughter on my lips. It’s easy to say you’re tired, hard to fuck up a nice life for sitting in front of a keyboard. But some things are impossible to ignore. I don’t know if people are on earth for a reason, seems arrogant. But if I’m in god’s image being myself is doing his work. Talk about hubris. 
On the loading dock I lather my hands. A car idles across the street. A woman in a tight purple dress; good stride. The driver twists his neck to get a better view. He yells obscenities. She waves him off like something she stepped in. He guns the engine, then circles the block. 
When I explained my life he said it sounded nice. And I have to admit he’s right. All my friends work full time, some two jobs. Fools. There are better ways to live. The gutter may laugh from the future, but the present is all that exists. 
At my desk I work on a novel. Thousands of words about love, about nothing at all. Just another loser lost on literary fiction. I’m looking to capture a moment in time, leave a piece of  me behind. I’ll never father children. The world is better off if I stick to what I know. 
Too hot for clothes I undress. I pace the length of my apartment. Being indoors when I don’t have to  be is a torture I won’t often suffer. But since I returned I’ve been full of malaise. No drive. The city moves too god damned slow. Someone’s missing. My houseplants droop and I ignore them. 
After dinner I go for a walk. The heat is crushing and the streets are desolate for a long weekend. I imagine people in air conditioned living rooms binge watching TV instead of living like we should be. The sky is our ceiling. I pause for a cigarette. I’m alive. 
In a deli I order a sandwich with three types of spicy chicken to eat on the bus. I pour a large coffee. Outside I smoke a cig and one of the joints that have to be gone by the time we pull out of Albany. I think of disappearing in the crowd. This could be my home. A cloud of smoke and I’m gone. 
I smoke a cig leaning against the fence. Some labourers down the block eye me with disdain. One last drag and I flick my butt at an SUV with an eagle decal across the front. I light a joint. People come and go. Monday morning and I’ve got work to do. 
When I wake it’s after noon. I’m sweating through my jeans. I sit in bed unable to rouse myself. This heat, this apartment, it’s toxic, it’s killing my will. The voice in my head screams get out get out get out. I frantically search for my things. 
I leave the door unlocked. Go up to the roof. Sitting on a roll of tarpaper I stare at a cellular transmission tower attached to the roof. I light my cig and do the math. It’s directly above where we’re sleeping. There must be repercussions. This headache. In the stifling living room I write. 
Across from the subway platform she leads me through a graffiti covered door. Up a winding staircase. Metal floor. It smells of Mexican cooking. South American music booms, a chorus of birds chirp down the hall. In a fourth floor apartment I drop my bag on the ground. I take her in my arms. It’s good to be back. 
I climb the stairs ready to start the day, to get it over and done with. It’s been too long since I’ve put some road between me and this place, this life. There’s a message on my phone from her when I check. I count the minutes until I’m there. 
Two black cops hassle a drunk white lady. Tables have turned I say and the African man I’m helping load boxes into his truck asks me to explain. I mutter words like retribution, payback. I’m not trying to be a dick I plead. Smiling he says don’t worry, you can’t help it, you were born that way. We laugh. 
It’s pouring so I walk to the corner, buy tickets. I smoke a cig on a stoop of a business closed. The bus never comes and the rain is now a mist. At home I grab my bike and quickly regret it. My pants are heavy when I get to work. I have no other clothes. I laugh because there’s nothing left to do. 
I work like a beast all day. Twelve cases of hoodies in a blur. I leave defeated. Unable to lift my arms I’m scared I won’t have the energy to type when I get home. Stepping on my bike I pray the wind is with me. It never is. 
A few more days and it’s the overnight bus with a coat for a pillow. A hotel that moves, the cheapest way to NYC. I go because it’s exciting, and life is often boring. Get up go to work make dinner go to sleep. I need more. I give myself to something bigger. Writing is how I know the world.
Sweat drenched men do acrobatics. Some fool in a cowboy hat amuses a crowd with rope tricks. On every corner is someone with a guitar and amp. Near a store I print t-shirts for I blend into the mob. A bar spills into the street, it’s patrons scream in joy. Summer is here. 
I take the metro downtown. In the bank I exchange canadian money for american. The security guard doom scrolls instead of noticing me. On rue Sainte-Catherine the junkies sleep as trash blows in the breeze. I stop to smoke a cigarette. It’s good to be alive. 
The buzzer sounds as I walk out the door. It comes as a comfort to know I won’t have to hear it again for three days. Seventy-two hours of peace and quiet. Time to write, to read, to remember this is all I ever wanted. Now what…find a little love? 
Through an open window I watch my neighbour make his bed. I shake my head as he crawls around in the blankets with boots on, I don’t see the point. But I don’t have to. All I have to do is finish this cigarette and prepare for the day. All I have to do is give in to fate. Fuck him. 
I wouldn’t mind if the sky stayed yellow forever. It’s romantic, like living in an old photo. Pictures of people long gone. I stare up at the hazy heavens, exhale a cloud of smoke. Into the air with the rest of it. I’ll follow along one day. We all go home eventually. 
Dressed like a filthy Batman he sleeps curled up on a cement block. Head resting on his arm, knees pulled up to his chest, his feet hang off the edge. A peaceful look on his badly sunburned face. He’s a baby boy, a perfect little angel. Thick smoke darkens the sun. 
I smoke a joint. Preparation for the daily purge . Release the valve or I might explode. I please myself with thoughts of New York City in the spring. Two more weeks and I’ll be sleeping on a bus. Last thing I’ll be thinking of is work, which looms. I start to type before it’s too late. 
Church bells toll as I watch two men  search their pockets, the ground. From the desperation and location I assume they’ve lost drugs. The half gone six-pack between them will have to do. This park is full of people with little to lose so I hold my bag. The sun feels good on my face. 
I sit on a bench. Middle of the day and the heat is oppressive. Those of us brave enough move slow, wear light clothing. We often think we’re superior, but when I look across the park I see lowland gorillas, chimpanzees, orangutans. Wouldn’t you love to pick my nits? 
No work day lasts forever. Rules and regulations secure this. Fatigue and exhaustion back it up. Old movies show the boss man whipping those that didn’t abide. Now cages sparkle so bright it’s harder to see the bars. There’s enough money for a new air fryer. 
First night without a jacket. I feel weird. I don’t know what to do with my arms. I stop in the doorway of the old dep. I smoke. I’m a part and apart while the borough swells. Terraces are full. People with ice cream, big smiles. I siphon off their happiness. It’s more than I can take. 
Finding a bench I light a cig. I listen to two men eating chicken talk about the kind of lives that make me cringe. Mortgages and office meetings. A voice in my head whispers you made the right choice…you’re better off without the chicken. 
The evening is nice. I go for a walk. Saint-Henri is alive and I want to be a part of it. So I sit on a low concrete ledge out front the priest’s house. I light a cig. People pass like they don’t see me, but I see them. Am I fading away, nothing but a cloud of smoke? I smile. 
I have my metro card but prefer fresh air. On rue Sainte-Catherine the junkies are sleeping peacefully, arms for pillows. In John Cabot Square a portable CD player hangs from a socket on a light post. People argue. Pigeons peck the pavement. There’s beauty everywhere. 
I stop in the café. Find a bench in the park. I smoke a cig, the tail end of a joint. I stare at the fountain talking to myself. A woman and I make accidental eye contact, we smile. Her shorts so short I see most of her ass as she walks away. I remove a book from bag, get lost in the words. Life is good. 
As I’m about to order I check my pockets. Muttering what a retard I tell the barista I forgot my money. I turn around and hear him say hey hey hey…come back…what’ll you have? I ask if he won’t get in trouble, vow to pay next time. He smiles when he says don’t worry. It’s nice to know not everyone’s rotten. 
Riding along the canal I keep my head down, look up when crows caw. I slow myself as I pass large bushes of lilac; bright purple. I lean in to get a whiff, receive a fragrant slap in the face. It reminds me of my granny. Fresh cut bouquet on the dining room table. She never raised a hand. 
At the dep I buy a coffee. On the stoop of an abandoned business I light a cigarette. I watch the people of Saint-Henri come and go like I have for a decade. Things that change are out of my control. I couldn’t stop her from leaving. It’s my choice what I lament. 
First thing first coffee brewing, I go out for a cigarette. It’s so early it’s quiet. I have the street to myself. Long sigh. It’s not often anyone gets anything to themselves in a city this big. You’d think it’d never be lonely, but it is, it is. A seagull screams overhead. 
I set up a two colour job. Lots of shirts. Hours of work. No one will bother me this way. I can think. I can escape. Behind my eyes I’m back home, in front of my laptop, the sound of the keys a comfort. I push ink with a smile. Freedom is my mind. 
The goal was become unlovable. So I got fat and mean. Pushed and pushed. I didn’t think things would get better, that I’d build a life free from the shackles my father wore; comfortable job, a family. I turned to art. I’m sorry if you used to know me. I was lost. 
I walk rue Notre-Dame. Pass through hordes of people loitering for brunch. At the dollar store I buy sparkling water, shoplift peanut butter cups. On the way back I take my time. Walk as slow as I’m able. No one is waiting. I stop in a café. I forget my sunglasses when I leave. 
Empty apartment talking to myself. Have I lost it? I hope so. Only a madman would bother with all this self examination, staring within. I mock the life of a monk. I’m nothing but a peasant. I’ll come out of this same as all the others. I write until I have nothing left to say. 
I pedal along the canal going towards a job thats selling point is it affords me time to write. Short days. Long weekends. More than I could ever need. I never wanted much. I’ve reduced my comforts. Food, clothes, a roof over my head, and the time to type. Always fucking typing. 
Life is energy spent. It takes the same amount of food for me to worry as it does to not. Adversity is good. It carves the person I become. Wind makes flat land of hills; eventually. I’m no better than what surrounds me. I can resist, or I can move softly like a breeze, nothing stops it. 
I stand where aren’t any windows, no apartments, no sleeping artist, itinerant, or alcoholic punk shitting their life down the toilet to bother. The sun rises over the storage units hitting me in the face. A car drives by slowly. I light a cigarette. Life is good. 
I climb the metal stairs to the second floor. Unlock my apartment, duck in. It’s perfect. Both too early and too late. The dealer down the hall is closed for a private party. No other sounds besides the wind rattling doors, screaming like it’s trapped. I feel ya. 
I take the long way back. Fresh air on my skin feels good. At home I put away my purchases, beef, pasta, tomato paste. I take off my clothes and climb up to bed. In the sun I read until I get bored. I put the book down. I masturbate and fall asleep. The church bells sound midday.