The two of us:
laughing into each other’s ears so we wouldn’t have to hear the immigrant blues. All gloominess would volatize as long we kept sauntering south on Yonge Street. Thirty degrees of sun; we'd share a plastic bottle filled with rum as we walked past pubs, clubs, tim hortons and 420 stores. We wouldn’t ever enter them; we could be broke, anonymous and dumb but we had our own doors and our bond was the master key. we'd just need that adopted sidewalk to keep babbling about black holes and bad hoes and the fuckedupness of the countries from which we had left; We'd trace the Torontonian line Jorneying through subject to subject, corner to corner; our enthusiasm driving us on and on and on; Mr. Deep couldn't help but throwing “Ooolalaaa!” to every pretty girl around. We wouldn't quit the chuckles as we went onwards; paving our common ground; down, down, down, down in Down Town. ,
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