A rugby ball cloud of smoke maintains its shape from a freshly-lit cigarette. “Bonjour.” “Hello.” And the ball floats for 3 full counts before coming apart in the air between me and the spiral staircases attached like fire escapes to every house. I hadn’t noticed until Anja pointed them out, and now I walk down each street mesmerized, tripping over a thousand bicycles.
I drive twohundredsomething kilometers staring at the color of fall and geography, unbothered by the rain—I haven’t taken a single photo.
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but I have taken a few videos. here is on the way into Montreal (complete with stupid face intro):
