Unedited. Probably (definitely) a bad idea:

It was you I was standing with the night the second snow fell. The drops turned to flakes and I wished you would have taken my hand and led me back home. Instead we talked more about your history and your future and I fell deeper for you amongst the shrill passersby. I tried to give you more in the hopes that you'd soon sip as you did the first night we met, but you refuse and I keep ingesting my own clouds. I'm too young and you're too new: it seems the problems we have will be with us forever. It's in letting go of such cares that we can once again find each other.

I told you I was working, that all I needed was a little inspiration. What I really needed was you, so that I didn't have to work any longer. My work is in my writing.

I offer you my cigarette and you take that. We'll work slowly. Slowly, with interest, because you know I'm already halfway to the finish line, just waiting for you to catch up. That's how I play the game and you're learning. I really should learn to slow down, but this city always has me on my feet. It's the moment you feel you can be static that you pick up and leave. Montréal is and always will be just a transition area, a brutal escape, a cold cage, too full of mirrors for your own good. Let's get out while we still can. Let's go - you just need to take my hand.

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