at least there's walking around in one's underwear...

i spoke to three people in person today: the man who came to (unsuccessfully) fix the hot water, the mumbling woman behind the counter at hsbc, and the mumbling woman behind the counter at marché st-jaques. it doesn't matter, though: there are few people i would liked to have spoken with, anyway. i was happier walking down ontario street, losing myself in the flavour of my market apple, completely impervious to the world around me, than i am in most social situations. and that is me: i am the girl whose grandparents had to call her name repeatedly before she could hear them over the roar of her book; i am the girl who can't do a math problem because she loses herself in the tiny possibilities, forgetting the bigger picture of the formula. i was born with an attention that operated like my own personal set of sound-proof headphones; all that i ever needed was to find a proper jack.

solitude in the city, it's something few people manage to find, but i've got it, right here in this empty apartment. dogs bark, keys clank, and i look out of my window with a distant curiosity, vaguely touched by these blips in my steady stream of single-minded perception. the trouble these days is that i seem to have lost control of the cord; the jack i plug into escapes my power of choice. the same sad song is droning on, and my logic fails to call me back.