I died last week, I think. Some of me did.

You bend and you bend and you bend and eventually you break. Eventually you get weak, and you shatter, and you fall.

It is at that point where time stops, the world goes away, and the attention of the gods is only for you. It is a sacred place.

Only in these places can true change be made. Some people build and bind these circles, some people can visit what is holy to them, whenever they want.

Others have to break.


I died last week. I stopped fighting back, and I bent, and I broke. I saw only cardboard skies, and masked pedestrians. Music felt empty in my ears, and I had no love for stories, or passion to tell them.

Yesterday, I tried to wash all the flesh away, and blind myself with chemical passion.

Somewhere in all the dead skin, I found something real.


Today, I was alive. My nerves burned with every touch, and my eyes saw a little more colour, a little more beauty in the city streets under the night.

I hope my melodramatic writing is somewhat excused.

There is a story interrupted, one that needs resolution. I have Kenza’s permission.

The city whispers in my ear, and calls me close. I need to sleep in Toronto’s arms, and see her smile again.