A summer spent in the mad, mad city of Montreal. Perspiring gray sidewalks, the 6:23 a.m. faces of bums stolen in apathy, the cutest, cutest, cutest girls. We don't care to assign some universality to the themes of that city; for us, it was a place and time--as it could have been any other for anyone else--that bisected those moments of intense scrutiny any kid our age of any sensitivity to the world sprawled in front of them should feel."But enough of the banality." Was it a question of opposing oneself to the other? How could we when this "they" slid their groovy feet to our music in a summer dampened studio? And our feet the same pumping to the edgy after-hours house and trance? It became a moot point. They entered our creative space, and us into theirs.And at moments a complete aesthetic clarity came, a dissolution of these trivial questions, an awe, an envy, a base happiness more important than the seconds it existed within. Whether it was splitting the skinny streets to a party, dawn-lit sex with whatever on whatever, or admiring the sweat on a dancing body, it all seemed like the strange vacuum created when onelipmeetsanother.
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