Picture of H. E. Casson. They are on a bus. It is a black and white close up of their face.

There is a house in the East End of Toronto with an unweeded garden, bowed and buckled siding, and a blue roof. It is my home. It is there that I write out the things I can’t seem to say.

Damn, that’s a broody selfie right there. But I like my cheekbones, so it’s the one you get.

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