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Every winter I fall in love

Every winter I fall in love with this city. It suits flags so well, and all the little lights on Norwegian trees, and the early dark in the cold afternoon that has us cowering in our scarves.
The city is spread out as a stage for a thousand pantomime scenes – creeping vines around the sleeping beauty, spires for wicked queens.
In the Abbotsford, robust females touch up their lipstick and leave their prints on gin highballs.
And still, after all this time, there is a ghost of me lingering in every bus stop, wishing merry Christmas to strangers as I plot to overthrow City Chambers with loneliness, style and the youthful art of sleeping around.

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