From Louis-Charles Simard's second floor, I saw the sun rise this morning. Standing behind the minuscule Charlotte, hanging from her corner, my eyes heavy with confusion, I let them split the focus and blur into one blinding light.

I can't see. What am I doing here? Standing because I can't sit. I can't sit because I can't fall asleep. I can't fall asleep because I can't stand the uncertainty of not knowing what I will wake up to, the loss of liberty that was not paid for or maybe the face of an old man, whispering to me that it is time to wake up, that everything is alright and that he understands that time is heavy. It's normal. It's nothing new. An exclamation over the ring and all is like before. You can go...

The street seemed cleaner this Sunday morning. A serpentine breeze curved from the river, under the bridge, across the park and the yellow line and died through the chimes in my mind. With it the sound of the holy grail rocking on itself, not knowing if it should fall or stay put. The vase of sacrifice. The empty vessel of belief.

What is it I want to see? The past or the future? Calculations or what comes after the edge of this cliff? There are many ways to solve a problem, a mystery, but there is only one way to be free. If belief is built upon what I see, then this fool might never have the chance to fall.

I must remember that only blood will know the whole story. And maybe one day, on my birthday perhaps, I will be dying on the Golden Beach, in the arms of a lover reborn in a season still complete, just delayed for a few months. I hope that summer will have heard my broken mouth speak everything that is expected from it.

The walk home was beautiful. I felt alive. Air is magical that way.