Sometimes you... fly...
Lying down on the grass in College Park in downtown Toronto, high, but not on drugs, memories of lazy beer-fed summer evenings swimming in your head...
Then they show up in your vision. Three of them.
The first one, a young man with a corned beef complexion, with far too much blonde hair for one human being...
The second; carroty hair matted over his face. Some pimples.
The third. Eyes that are sharp, that are flinty, that don't waver.
Said the first: "He looks like a guy trying to figure out how to open a bottle of whiskey from the inside." Gruff laughter. A mean smile.
A cool breeze set the foliage in the park whispering.
You feel an exhausted gravity weigh itself around you.
You paste on a smile. This is the pain of being alive...
You have the prerogative to remain silent, but not the ability.
"Well, hello, gentlemen."
The first one's face betrays annoyance.
The meal of a while ago is a warm memory in your stomach. Too bad you may be bringing it up soon...
"Let's get this one over with, shall we?"
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