DREAM WITH BIRDS, CLOUDS AND WATER
I met my friend Roger Stille the dancer on an early August afternoon when Montreal had reached that peak summer moment of sultry-humid, close, airless stillness, when its streets are like fissures in a ripe persimmon about to burst. For a month, nothing seems to happen. People drink beer on their balconies. Some escape to their country houses. No one cares about money or language. The world, though not perfect, settles into a thoughtless dream. Roger and I sit in a café with ceiling fans, his burgundy scarf fluttering in the breeze, and he tells me this story.
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