The Most Interesting Person in the World

Notes from my Journal, March 1

Posted on: February 18, 2010

You don’t think it’s so important, but it is. If this gourd had wings, it would say, “What am I doing here?”

I don’t belong here. It is Toronto’s 175th birthday and I smell smoke. “Can’t you see the light?” she asks me on a Friday afternoon.

I am just the vessel.

Faded words on a faded blackboard, back, front, like waves of an oil spill.

It’s all in how you project it.

She asks me what I’m feeling and my glove slips away. “It wasn’t even on my hand!” I yell to the cold, dark night.

Hello. How are you? Am I the one you’re looking for?

The nights have dreams.

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