I wrote this as I sat and took in the views my second last day in Vancouver from the seat of my rental scooter. Funny to read it now as I sit restless on my couch, scooterless, and with increased expectations for accessibility that I picked up from the other cities I visited, with their ramps and conversations and elevators and signage.

How many cigarettes does it take to get addicted? I’m curious.
How many days in a new city before you fall in love with it? We’ll see.
How many afternoons spent in the wide spaces til like I feel like myself again, til I feel clear, without a pitied gaze, half internalized, half resisting, have internalized.
How can I convince myself that I don’t need to stay and fight, that I can be free.
Waiting for the broken city to release me
Waiting for the broken city to release me

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