You ask a student about the public opinion of their university. They don’t know. You ask another about its history. They don’t know. You ask a professor in the hall about the reasoning behind the architecture. They don’t know. You ask a receptionist in the visitor’s office what year it is. They don’t know. You ask yourself where you are. You don’t know.
Driving down Highway 1, you feel a pit growing in your stomach. You told them you couldn’t be stationed in Surrey, yet here you are, trees beginning to give way to flickering city lights. They say it’s a dumping ground for new Mounties like you. Nobody ever returns. You casually speak into your radio to try and lighten the mood. The response is an ear-splitting, inhuman screech.
You were told to watch out for bears and caribou. This is clearly not a bear or a caribou, but whatever it is, it is very, very big, and staring right at you with eyes like car headlights.
You sip your bubble tea and walk further into the mall. You sip your bubble tea and walk further into the mall. You sip your bubble tea and walk further into the mall. You sip your bubble tea and walk further into the mall.
You’re sitting in a bar on Commercial Drive as a local indie band, a favourite of yours, sets up. The singer opens her mouth to test the microphone. You wake up on the beach. The Pacific Ocean is grey. The sky is grey. The sand is grey. Your hands are red.
You’re driving eastwards through the Fraser Valley to spend some time in the sunny Okanagan. There’s a church. There’s a church. There’s another church. You begin to realise that it’s 3 in the morning, the sun has not set, and you feel no fatigue. There’s a church.
This building is designed to protect pedestrians from the rain wherever they might walk in the complex, and you do feel protected. It’s odd to say, but you feel like caring eyes are watching you, and you feel a careful touch leading your hand through the concrete.
The sickly blue paint in the diner peels off the walls. You eat your baked pork chop rice in silence. It tastes like memories of labour, of sore muscles and broken bones and rusted railroad spikes. The chef coughs from the semi-open kitchen.
DING-DING-DING! The next station is Bridgeport. This train is for Richmond-Brighouse. For trains to YVR Airport and locations beyond the limits of human perceptive capabilities, please transfer at the next station.
You wake up one morning and see that your driver’s licence is on your bedside table. You didn’t have one when you went to bed, and you certainly didn’t go through the process of getting one, but there it is. You make a small note of a strange insignia on the underside of your arm, but looks like you’re ready for the road!
You walk forward into the park for a hike. It starts to get dark. You’ve been walking a few hours now. The endless seas of pine trees are very tall. Worried, you look back, and you see that you are only a few steps forward from the edge of the road where you entered.
Something washed up on the beach. It’s vaguely gelatinous, but bloated, with wounds like those possible on human flesh. It has a few hairs growing on it. Somewhat perturbed, you walk away, leaving it for someone else to clean up.
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