Like a streetcar doing the motions, waving hi and bye at the party.
Like a shy street, all coy and dimples, knees touching in awkward glee, never stepping into the sunlight like this before.
Like a cough executioned with a dagger glance. Watch what comes out of your mouth in more ways than one.
Like a baby in a stroller just suddenly making you ferklempt, choking up a cauliflower in your throat, could it be that you hate seeing someone so innocent and clueless be living in the same era of an invisible enemy wiping out broad strokes of people, and scaring everyone else?
Like Facebook posts begging for Netflix recommends, like an IG story loaded with so many dashes because what the fuck else is there to do?
Like 20 minutes watching Pheonix Suns guard Devin Booker play Fortnite because right now you'll take any dust mite of competition, something to just powder your palate, even though you really don’t get Fortnite. And let's be honest, you don't really like Devin Booker either.
Like also not getting how to fund your social wallet with enough currency to keep you afloat. And you don’t need much. A drunken high-five, a chill poetry cypher outside the Drake, a smattering of tennis with Andrew.
Like scrolling on Twitter for five minutes and realizing you now have five minutes worth of new tweets that could reveal vital information nuggets about how upside-down today is about to get. Again. It won’t make you feel better. Just overwhelmed, like you ordered too much at the BBQ place on Gerrard East and now you’re just stuck with brisket breath and chicken-wing sweats.
Like more masks and less small talk at farmers markets. Oh wait, there are no more farmer markets.
Like sunsets the colour of a fresh baseball glove.
Like a skateboarder smiling as gracefully as his curving ride along the middle of a deserted street.
Like two strangers walking towards each other on the street, now stepping into a new odd dance, of oh, excuse me, let me go wider around you, oh, you're widening? ok, I'll just walk straight, don't make eye contact, cool cool cool.
Like a run for coffee feels so risky you actually swell with dumb pride when you bound out of Timmys, clutching your trophy until your skin screams.
Like unearthing recipes gathering more dust than your Metropass.
Like a raccoon's scream actually being welcomed under the cemetery of midnight. You'll take any sound right now.
About This Blog
Culture. Poetry. Being a better creative. Toronto stories. Technology. Sports. Why X-Files rocks.