Turn off the lights, it’s morning, my hair is tangled. Waking up, I’m going to a memorial right across the street for Zayn Ali, found dead only a few blocks away. Either murder or a running jump from his apartment window. I feel like I should have said hello more, but don’t know why. Appropriation, this inability to touch any grief, this length of bed under me, these red sheets, the rain hissing through traffic outside. The newspaper got the name of his brother wrong. Outside the box, I don’t know if I’m going to see anyone else I know.
Work later, the Dance Centre. Dropping by Kitsilano, staying for dinner, trying to get away before it gets too late. Something to keep the weather off, photographs of Vegas, my house after midnight.
Heart of the World continues Monday. This is all regularly scheduled programming.