mason

Spring was when the world seemed nothing more than comic books and cartoons. I was in love with my mothers typewriter and remember nights where its ensemble of letters would perform upon a white paper stage. I remember the rhythmic “smack, click, bing” floating out of my window down into a neighbourhood still infamous for its crime and broken doors ablaze with red lights. I remember sinking into her lap afterwards, and losing myself in the stories she would read aloud of renegade cheese men and