Sitting at the corner of Dundas

and Yonge on a slab of concrete surrounding a tortured tree. The concrete permanently stained by the fluids leaking from the wounds in the souls of the people who stream by. I don’t know very much but I do know that this isn’t what I moved to Toronto for. But there I am less than twelve hours after hitting this town. And this is essentially my neighborhood. And for this I have left behind a woman who wants a pair of boots that reach her thighs.