bowie.

oh, the humanity. no shave november takes no prisoners, so i've discovered.

i wrote some words this weekend, on a cold, windy day, while i was tucked inside. the fire was burning, and the national were singing us songs. here's what came about.

1. His story of her.

The night is alive with flashing lights, green and red, sliding down each building and on to the wet streets. Your eyes reflect all those shades of life, as they bounce off your pupils into mine. You're smiling because all of this seems new, and the city seems endless. Not endless in the way that you know, with the sun stretching across the entire horizon, but rather it's like an endless moment. Each block is another story; another collection of individuals with their ironic tales of love and loss. Most people back home know your story already, but here, you're just one of a million stories. So we take drives, which we know doesn't help a cause, but you say it's your favourite way to take in the city. The unassured comfort of four wheels.

2. Her story of him.

He spends so much time outside, just sitting on the bench, staring out into the abyss of wheat and grain. I think when city folk, like him, come to the prairies, they like the silence. In fact, the only sound at this time of the evening is a faint train, and the occasional siren from the distant highway. I had always thought of this boy as such a complex being, which is why I think he was drawn to the simplicity of the vast expanse of field and nothing. He would hold my hand as we went on our midnight walks down the gravel road. He'd always exclaim about how beautiful the stars were, and how he never wanted to leave. "Home," he would say, "is a starry night." And with him there beside me, I couldn't agree more.