I numb myself with lines of modern Disney films, en français ou en anglais, so as to delay my decaying youth. They say there are no happily-ever-afters in New York City or Toronto, but both cities were where I felt the most content. These autumn leaves whisk me away to the summer past, and I wish for an unstable stability that no one else could fathom.

And here I am, in a place that desensitizes what remains of my empathy. I am twenty-two, yet I feel as though I am on the verge of my thirties, what with the panicked thoughts that haunt my wake moments.

I found happiness in a city with golden lights, but I crave something more than the Great White North – a West coast beach with Venice palm trees. An idea, tucked deep within my reveries, that comes to light when I let my mind wander enough to retrieve that happiness.

I count down the weeks, eight to be exact. That is the moment when I catch that ride, the drive down to my happily-ever-after.

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