I put on my most com­fort­able hood­ie, grab a cam­era and a tri­pod. Pass by the mir­ror and see my eyes are swollen. A base­ball cap’ll hide my face.

I put on The Alchemy Index. First is Fire. An anthem of rage, and burn­ing, and fury in the night.

The flames will rise and devour me.
Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I’m free.

I find a qui­et, wind­ing road, alter­nat­ing between 60 and 30 max. About eight kilo­me­tres down, there’s a small fer­ry load­ing dock, with a place to park on the side of the road. I get out and take a pic­ture of the car. Other cars keep pass­ing by, their head­lights leav­ing streaks across my cam­era sen­sor.

The road slopes upwards around a bend, and I dri­ve off again to find out where it goes.

There’s a look­out point on a cliff, sur­round­ed by a rail. Across the waves of the Ottawa riv­er is Quebec. People come and go. Three types of peo­ple.

The cou­ples here for a roman­tic view. They park, walk up to the rail­ing, and talk to each oth­er about noth­ing in par­tic­u­lar. The girl­friends get cold and short­ly want to leave.

The kids in their par­en­t’s cars, already high or drunk. They sit in the car with all the lights on, talk­ing through their music, obliv­i­ous to the seren­i­ty around them oth­er­wise.

The men here by them­selves, aban­doned and alone on a Friday night. They sit in their cars with the lights out, and come out to lean on the rail­ing every now and then. I’m one of them.

On my way back, I skip Water and put on Air. A song about a boy who could fly, about falling upwards and away.

So, here we go.
Hold on tight and don’t let go.
I won’t ever let you fall.
I love the night.
Flying o’er these city lights.
But I love you most of all.

I miss a turn, and find a smooth pave­ment road that winds through the for­est. My eyes are dry and tired. I put on the high beams and cruise con­trol, dis­cov­er­ing anoth­er way home.