Impossible weather outside. I walk south, east, north again. At Christie Pits watch the crowds from the bowl, in the general murmur. Stragglers sit in the grass on the hill, reading books by themselves. Want something to jump in me. I am coming closer. I am making promises to myself. I am inching in one direction—something threatens to overtake me. But I know that when it finally does it will be good. 

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