I found this postcard at the Everest Restaurant on Bloor Street the other day:
Sophie:
When she walked she was required to kind of heave the left side of her body before her right. This created something of a lurch, but a subtle one, a necessity of her life that had been practiced over years. She wore a severe and intentional set of glasses on her face and a black beret on her head, and as she walked down Bloor Street she had her face tucked just inches from the open pages of a paperback copy of Game of Thrones. With her spare hand she smoked a cigarette. The world in front of her seemed to divide and then recede in her path, and in the fierce indifference she projected to the people around her you could see a strategy. This is the way she lived, a necessity of her life that had been practiced over years. The wind blew in hard gusts, shivering her exposed hands and riffling the pages of her book, but still she fought her way through the mysteries and pleasures of the city, lost in the words of an imagined universe.
I hope we never get like that.
Love,
Malcolm