...kuzu kuzu...

By noon today I had decided it was a fluke or a conspiracy, some computer program (government initiated, perhaps) collecting random writing samples and reproducing them for its own neferious purposes. Strangely, I was more comfortable with this scenario than with the idea that some "20-year old Torontonienne" was deliberately selecting and modifying our work and words, fitting them into her constructed, imagined life. For one thing, the latter would imply a much closer attention to what we say and do than I am happy with. Closer both in the sense of focus on our lives, and in the sense of proximity. In the end, a government agent learning I'm romantically apolitical and fascinated by (of all things) Starbucks culture doesn't really affect me so much. But a potential local crazy? Toronto is not so very large.

After all, recounting to Bumble B. my stupendous discovery, showing her the first-page photo, she recognized the one in the middle as a friend of her boyfriend's, currently in school in London-O, whatever does this mean-o? It means everything is illuminated upon his reply to our email.

All the worlds are smaller, these days.