It’s a familiar feeling but much less potent than the one that overtook me that first year in Montreal. There was a lead-heavy and crushing thing that bloomed inside of me then. It started in the winter, a wretched season. Sharp winds sliced through my insufficient layers, and I was sure all the blood would freeze in my fingers and toes. My skin itched from dryness, and I couldn’t seem to get warm enough. To whatever degree my body suffered, my mind was hit tenfold. Something shifted, something cracked. There were many many instances when, walking along the frost-covered sidewalks, I
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