“Are DJs artists”? 

“Come look at my work. I think you’ll really like it.”

Clarice Lispector understands the emptiness of words.

I watched a seagull eat a crab at crab park. The park was not named after this.

I have not seen anyone shotgun a beer in a while. Especially a bureaucrat.

Dynamo’s done, but what’s 99?

That was a good jam, but the drummer is moving to Munich soon.

Beijing, not Berlin, baby.

I woke up in a tree house, you know. I think that’s a spider bite on my knee.

We can talk shop, but I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to tell you.

This last cigarette is dry going down. All the faces were green and sallow and young.

I’m pretty sure that’s a two way mirror up there.

I’m trying, sort of.

The moonshine is not a new idea. But it was followed by a human sauna dance party.

The plums tasted like bananas. Are these people getting evicted too?

My pockets were filled with rose petals. Rose petals make a good seat.

Please stop calling my writing stream of consciousness.

The show looks completely different in the daylight.

Here For Now. That’s a good name for the piano bar.

“The bike ride home was epic.”

We sat in rows of three to watch Gonick’s Stryker in DTES. I was hoping for more walk-ins, but the seats were mostly filled by artists. The look of disgust on some people’s faces. The complete queering of identity. The glamourization of The North End. Alienation was worth it. This was an unapologetic love letter to Winnipeg, and I recognize that Vancouverites apologize a lot.