From a postcard found on the streets of Little India in Toronto on November, 15, 2010
Somewhere off in the distance somebody is strumming a guitar. I can hear it through my open window. Softly, it drifts in beneath the hum of the fan, as if with breath held and shoes in hand.
Looking across the street into a weirdly lit parking garage, I can see an attractive couple in Rock N’ Roll clothing holding hands. They’re so singular, so cinematic. They’re the center of every story in the world. They could be skipping, singing Pink Moon by Nick Drake and letting it echo through the night. They could be anything. And suddenly, as if a monster has risen from myth, they’re blocked by the striped gate-arm of the garage. And instead of walking around it, they both bend back and limbo beneath the arm. Their hands have lost touch after this feat, and instinctively they pull closer together, as if compelled by the magnets that live within. They laugh and smile, spinning and hugging, so alive, so unaware that anybody is watching.
I love and miss you Sebastian, come back soon.
Six weeks is six weeks too long.
Meghan