Walking on the streets of Vancouver; walking under the city lights, looking for a place to sit; looking for the next band to melt my heart; this heat will melt me, make me sweat; sweet taste of sweat on my lips, running down from my brow; a quiet, melancholy night; the city belches many noises, but nothing speaks to me; a few heckles and drunken laughs, but no real words; words ripe with meaning; words like ripe apples and words like ripe peaches; juice running down my chin, ointment on Aaron’s beard; words that ease my heart, ease my mind; none I find on these Vancouver streets; only lonely souls traveling in groups, in packs, searching for a den in which to settle and begin feasting on regretful hearts, licking wounds and chanting quietly to one another, “Go to sleep. We want to change the world, but we don’t love the world: we don’t love the world, but it’s all we were given.” And I walk past, for this den is not for me. I walk by these lonely souls; they’ll perish in that den, drowned in blood and pus they’ve licked from their wounds; I walk by these souls, they have no words for me; I taste my salty sweat as the city heat melts me, and walk past these souls, past the city lights, into the darkness.
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