.I am sitting here, smoking a cigarette, a man painting my nail’s black with my bare leg stretched out. and all I am thinking is, wouldn’t it be wonderful to join a virginal colony of women somewhere in the swiss hills? Which flowers, and paintings, and laughter, and dance. Forget the life of old rotting streets of Toronto, and nights that wreak of blood, whiskey, and men who don’t know what they want. And woman who become jealous of you without knowing who you are, or what they want either. Wouldn’t it be nice to forget your idealizations of becoming just another dancer no one will care about. Songs revolving around youtube. dragging your expectations towards fame. You won’t do it for your family anymore because they don’t care. You are broke and have no money. You will never become a dancer again. And what is a dancer? Taking a tango class off of Broadview chuch, then heading to have chinese with your friends afterwards, before hitting a skank infested club on King Street? This is what you see your friends do and you’re not there for some reason. There no appeal. I have lost appeal. Life is appeal less. What appeals to me is a place, that leaves behind all the smells that numb us, and invites us to the porch of the river, that carries fresh water. and when I drink I know, my lips know, my throat know, my liver knows, my black painted pinky toe knows, that we have never - all together- experienced anything - Purer.
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