Curfew starts tonight. The province-wide reminder alert prompts me to make my way home.
Helicopters circle overhead.
At 7:36 pm, a man sits by himself at the picnic table. I hear the faint strains of an orchestra as I pass within a few metres of him. Music piped in for the skating rink, I assume, before realizing the park's infrastructure is too rudimentary for that. No, he's brought his own accompaniment. He outbelts Dean Martin. "Everybody loves somebody sometime... My sometime is now."
I read little these days. I arduously file away at a block of soapstone, waiting for some secret greatness to emerge.
Today I completed a 312-day streak of German lessons. This is the power of habit. I have given up hope of ever translating Rilke, I can't even sing along with Nena. But I am loathe to break my streak.
Look, angels sense through space
their infinite feelings.
Our incandescence would be their coolness.
Look, angels glow through space.
Whilst we, who know nothing more,
resist one thing, whilst another occurs in vain,
they stride on, enraptured by their intention,
across their fully formed domain.