concrete jungle where dreams are made of.

I love the city. The sprawling sky limited by the tops of buildings; the rush of the cars as they sweep by your feet; the exhilarating thrill of the streets, dotted with lights in the fall evenings; the boarded up shops and tiny boutiques where beauty can be found; they all excite me, make me happy. That being said, I live in the suburbs of a big city. After all, who else could maintain such an unhealthy love for the city and its beauty?

I love walking around dressed in all-black, smiling at strangers and spontaneously bursting into a random art gallery and thumbing through their catalogues. I love washing my fingers in those bowls of lemon-water and shovelling crepe-yumminess into my mouth. I love the bustling markets and the smell of food from the vendors ardently calling out their goods, comparing their prices to stalls behind them. I love the loneliness of the harbourfront, how artists and tourists alike sit and stare out into the water as if finding the meaning of life there. I love the subway and its echoes and how you're just surrounded with people who have their own lives, their own way of doing things. It makes me want to learn from all of them. It makes me want to sit down and interview them, talk with them about their lives, become their friends. The previous sentence makes me sound creepy.

This summer, I definitely have to spend more time downtown. I want to get acquainted with the construction sites and the graffiti networks. I want to make friends in coffeeshops or in parks feeding the pigeons. I want to ask people about their lives and pick up tidbits of their advice and slip it into mine. I want to do so much. I only hope I can! Thanks for reading, beautiful!