The Fire

This was last night, ah, a fire at the Dollarama:

I was in such a bad mood, and I looked out the window, and I thought, eh, that’s pretty, the way the light was dancing on the wall. It was like water, more than fire, this rippling orange glow. It took me a moment to understand the ripples were smoke and the place was ablaze.

I could hear the sirens already, but I did what you do—I went out on my balcony and I made a shaky video. I watched passers-by making their own shaky videos, and I video’d them too. See, here they all are, all making a vigil:

We’re all ghouls, aren’t we? Only, not really, ’cause the fire wasn’t bad. It was hosed down in minutes, and the lights never went out. They opened this morning, like always.

This must be why people like sports. Spectator sports, I mean. You go, and it’s just you, and it’s too loud to talk to anyone, but you’re doing something, and you can see other folks doing it too. It feels like you’re doing it with them. Like you’ve something in common. I liked that last night, all the people. Maybe I’ll chuck a firebomb down there so we can do it again. Go, Blue Jays! Go, ah, Vancouver Fire Hall #20!

I wouldn’t really do that. But I did like the fire. I liked it a lot. A+. Would rubberneck again.

I shouldn’t have confessed to that, should I? But I’ve been such a miseryguts lately. It feels good to be interested again, even if only in…minor property damage.

Oh. And I’m pleased to report that the dog tree’s still there. See, look: a dog.

The tree is still there, and there’ll be dogs in its shade. I like the dog tree. I like this dog especially, because he’s messy and old.

Should I be worried that the mere illusion of human contact lifts my spirits so?

I think I’ll just enjoy it. Enjoy it and eat olives. I got olives.

Sheep.

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