Each crest-wave melts forward unto a cyclic downward unto a mix-exchange at the bank of the channel, fluid between the Georgia Strait and the passive Pacific, all the way from probably-Australia. The overcast is claustrophobic, sort of-- Victoria feels like a small wet cottage in a populated happy brain-cell, so when the clouds roll in all you notice are the creases on the faces that look as they grunt and push their eyes half-closed, exhaling a nicotine cloud in pensive thought toward a day job. Dunhill cigarettes always give off the faint odour of soy sauce, and the blue rot of the Johnson Street Bridge ticks away, caught in a state of eternal construction. In the aisle of an apartment somewhere else inside the city, one can smell the delicate remains of Indian food, curried and waiting for years ago to come again. The narrative has never been more than sheer observation, not to watch what comes and goes, but what flows across the fractal void of every-angle. There are dots on the rocks, and legs on the waves.. butts in the moss, and hours in the days. If 'forgotten' is the outcome of my every effective attempt, it will change nothing up those sleeves of mine. And nothing left exempt.