Sitting in my dorm room on the edge of Trois-Rivières. The thermometer currently reads 32.0 degrees Celsius. All the shades are closed; Schubert and extra-iced orange juice from a thermos are my only companions. I cannot even attempt to make sense of the last 7 days.

A boy of questionable morals and ambiguous womanizing ways. An attention-seeking girl with a devastating sort of vulgarity. A reserved, self-righteous boy from the Maritimes. A timid, dreamy girl who transforms into a nightmare of mothers all over the world with a few drops of ethanol coursing through her system. A boy who lost his head. A girl who loved men a little more than the rest. A boy who loved women a little more than the rest. Et puis, moi-même.

The precarious boundary between spontaneity and inebriation is beginning to disintegrate. Everything appears farcical, out-of-this-world,  a scene from the brushes of Magritte or Dali.  Did I really clamber up and down a steep hill under the influence of Absolut, then watch in horror and fascination, as two friends shared an intimate moment in the stairwells before me? Did I really impress him with my appropriated confidence and recklessness? Did he really confide to me in the forest path that somehow, amidst all the drunken antics of my roommates and my relative sobriety, I stood out from the rest?

Est-ce il seulement un rêve?

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