I thrust myself into the heart of the city. It’s beating like a neon drum.
Or at least that’s where the pulse seems to be coming from.
I’m cautious but adventurous.
You never know what will happen when you park across the street from the Greyhound bus station.
There is a blood-curdling scream from the man to my left, running through the street. He apparently isn’t from around here.
Everyone else is calm and kind, like frogs on lily pads staring at the streetlights.
That’s the first thing you notice when you put yourself into the heart of someone else’s land. The natives either share the oxygen with you, or you’re fucked — choked by a brown bag of despise they throw from their eyes over your head.
I can breathe fine here and the air is clean.
Dundas Street appears before me as a long blue, gold and glowing red vein for art and music.
The freaks and the vanilla blend together as a young and colorful painting. The streaking colors bend over the cracked brick walls that line the streets.
The art only ceases when there are zzz…s
The crafty sunshine hits my face through the cracks in the metal partition in my Ford E-350. It’s a soft touch of down feathers caressing my eyelids until they open. The neon pulse is still outside. I can feel the beat.
The once fluorescent veins moving away from Dundas are now full of suits and ties blotted with misfit highlights. It’s the epitome of one species defining responsibility in one thousand different ways.
My feet move me towards the University.
It is Beautiful.
The needle in the middle of the city is phallic.
It’s enormous and uncomfortably alone.
I wonder if the man who designed it had napoleon syndrome?
But I guess it really doesn’t matter what I think. It’s there.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.