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Victoria Frances

Toronto, my home, is Gotham city.

Damien Malice is playing guitar. I think of his fierce hands, gentle and calloused at the finger tips.

I ask him: “who did you write that for? What are you saying?”

His dark brown hair covers his face as he shreds a tender solo that sings just for me.

 I wait.

Damien looks up from his playing. He says with half smile and half snarl: “it occurred to me last night, in a nightmare I was having.”

 

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