There are times when I walk down Yonge St. on a Friday or Saturday night and realize that I am not all there. Maybe it’s the oily shadows that threaten the edge of every neon light and the people that disappear, then reappear, and disappear again into them. Or maybe it’s the half-concealed faces and silhouettes that mill behind windows or the Doberman that lopes silent and unleashed from darkness to darkness. Whatever it is it does not matter, because this cannot be real.

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