Notices by ▽ (kavaeric@snouts.online)

"Sorry," someone says, passing by. "Sorry," another one says. You do not know what they are sorry for. "Sorry." You do not know what they did to you to make you apologise. You hold back tears.

Is it The Bay? Or is it Hudson's Bay? It could be either. You glance over your shoulder. For now, it seems, it is simply The Bay. It is time to rest, for it will all resume tomorrow.

Do not speak of Vancouver. Do not speak of Montreal. Do not yearn for those other places. You are safe here, here in Toronto. It is for the best you are here, with us. You must be confused for thinking otherwise. The City of Toronto will now run an art festival to calm you.

You speak to someone. They make a sound at the end. You nod your head and agree. You never disagree when they make the sound at the end.

Everyone says the other language everyone speaks is French. When you walk down the street, though, you notice all the signs are in Chinese. You ask them again. They still tell you it's French.

The roads in Canada are wide. You never see much traffic. The locals say that the roads need to be wide, though, because of what happens in the mornings. You decide to take night classes.

People speak of Calgary. You know people in Calgary. They speak of Edmonton, but no one outside of Calgary speaks of Edmonton. You're not sure Edmonton is a real place.

As an expat living in Canada, the more I live here, the more I'm convinced I'm actually stuck in some kind of cryptic horror nightmare country that's subtly and slowly eating away at me.