Museum station was closed, doors he had never before seen in the evening imperfectly sealing the way to the subway at the bottom of the stairs, yellow light gleaming behind their seams. He thought, initially, it was a suicide, but the shuttle bus that would later pass him on Bloor indicated a plan to the closure. Between the museum stairs and two party limos parked at the curb, filled with suited white men, gleeful and anonymous, drinking beers, a forklift slowly drove, then turned and indolently dug its teeth into only a four inch snowbank. At the library exit a woman he had found in the stacks once after closing, who had confessed that she had been so lost in thought she had missed his announcement, asked what day it was. The other library assistant had said, “Tuesday.” They talked about it being Tuesday for some time. But it was Monday. He wished her good luck after correcting them both. All day he had worried about “lack” and now he was thinking “How is today any different from the past?” It was important to him that things be different this time but he had never really thought about it before, not meaningfully, before he made the decision that things would be different now. He had been reading Augustine, who was describing a method that only made his absence feel more pronounced. The method that Augustine described was barred to him. He thought of something he had once said to a friend of his, in a rare moment of clarity, explaining that of the kind of person who felt their own absence deeply there were two kinds: those who tried to account for it in themselves and those who made others responsible for it. He did not say that there was nothing stopping him or anyone from being both at once. His friend had said “André I am thrilled by this.” 

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