The girl wakes up, there's coffee on, drags her bare feet, down the hardwood hall. A kitchen dressed, in age and warmth, 8am sun, parts drapes well worn.

Painter by day, painted by night, dancing like smoke, in full moon light.


The boy wakes up, coffee cups roll, beneath his seat, almost there he's told. Across the bridge, to Gatineau, they're two weeks in, with two more to go.


Nomad by day, poet by night, in crowded bars, within spotlights.