Coming back across Bloor. Waiting at the light to cross into residential streets. What strange heaviness, what strange dreams. Endless wandering—masks and no masks. We keep leaving them behind, in cramped rooms—we’re in the nearly abandoned lowest floor of some large commercial space, where there is a bar and a coffee shop. Beds on tables. Someone who didn’t want to speak to me—they felt vulnerable because of how things left off. “You have been changed by this.” “It’s opened me up.” Confessions of love. Scrambling in the basement. I can think of many interpretations, contradictory ones. I don’t know what any of it means. Nothing means anything. 

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