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The locals reassure you it is better here than in America, but everyone you know lives so close to the border. The border control is quick and seamless. They say it's also better that way.

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The water is cheap here. The Water Company makes the electricity. Water falls from the sky, no matter season or year. All the cities are near the water. You can drink the water from the tap. The government insists.

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Everyone knows there is a regular furry meetup here, but no one ever knows when exactly the next one is, just that it is soon. No one ever mentions it to you. When the photos of the event come, it is always full, and the people say they love going. Oh, god, they all love going.

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You can't read any of the French, but you're curious, so you ask your friends from France if they can translate for you. They say they can't read it either.

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The Lake-Shore Expressway is full of cars. None of them move. None of them driven by anyone. You look away, and then look back. All of them have stepped forward, yet all are still stationary.

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You have been to Saskatchewan and it is very flat indeed, yet the horizon is never in sight.

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The open-top tour buses are a frequent sight, yet you never see them in the Fashion or Entertainment districts. The people on top stare down at you with a heavy gaze. You remember hunting rifles are unrestricted here and avert your eyes.

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They will gather in the SkyDome tonight. The SkyDome has a great atmosphere. It doesn't make sense. It is not called the SkyDome. It never has. Has it?

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They speak differently here, they say. It is easy to tell from someone who is from here and who is from America. It is unmistakable, and obvious, surely you can tell the difference. They reassure you with smiles, but their pastel blue gaze remains unmoving. Can't you tell?

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They let you try poutine for the first time . The platter is uniform in spread and colour, yet a chaotic tangle of condiment all the same. You take a bite. It is piercing salt on your tongue and weighs heavy on your chest. You say you like it. It is wise not to upset them.

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The tap water is not clear like at home, but white and hazy. It stirs after landing in your cup, then disappears into nothing. The government insists it is harmless to drink. You believe them, but some part of your mind is always unsure.

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You have seen the two other airports, Downsview and Bishop, on your maps many times. They are as old as the Earth they rest on. You have never questioned why they are there, or why you do not know anyone who uses them.

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The pedestrian crossing audio sounds like the ones they use in Tokyo. You joke about it with the locals, but they don't know what you're talking about. You are in Canada. You have not been back to Tokyo in many years.

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You are on the way back from your South friend's home. It is an elevated expressway, bordered on all sides with glass skyscrapers adorned with blinking red lights. You still have not been back to Tokyo in many years.

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Your friends took you out on a trail one day in Alberta. The hiking is leisurely, and they say it is healthy and bracing to be outside. You nod and try not to look behind you, for the forest reaches high and out across the mountains.

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It is a beautiful leaf, bright red and bold, with eleven points rhythmically arranged in stunning beauty. It is everywhere, and people wear the leaf as a sign of community bonding. It feels so familiar and friendly. You have never seen a tree that bears this leaf before.

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You find an old Canadian animated film, with a funny premise and story. When you start the film, it blares an angry note at you, as the symbol of a man encapsulated by an all-seeing eye appears dead centre of the screen. It leaves, the film starts, and you forget about the man.

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Do not speak of Vancouver. Do not speak of Montreal. Do not yearn for those other places. You are safe here, here in Toronto. It is for the best you are here, with us. You must be confused for thinking otherwise. The City of Toronto will now run an art festival to calm you.

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The Canadian people hate Winnipeg. They slander Winnipeg. They have written a song about unlikeable Winnipeg is. They chant, turn back, turn back from Winnipeg.

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Is it The Bay? Or is it Hudson's Bay? It could be either. You glance over your shoulder. For now, it seems, it is simply The Bay. It is time to rest, for it will all resume tomorrow.

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Legends say the train goes to Finch, but everyone you know from Finch has never taken the train home for reasons undisclosed. On the day you need to go to Finch, the line is closed for service.

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You may have been warned about the Canadian winters, and how they are cold. This is untrue; as a matter of fact, Canada is so very cold, all the time. It will never stop, no matter rain nor shine, but I promise you will learn to love it.

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The construction site has been there for all eternity. When you visit it one day, however, all the workmen are gone; replaced by a cold, gleaming skyscraper. They assure you it is not haunted, yet also advertise its suspicious lower-than-average rent.

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You have met a lot of Americans online when you were back in your hometown. When you arrive here, you learn that one of those Americans is actually a Canadian. All of them are Canadian. They always have been.

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You meet new people, and they think you are Canadian. You insist you are actually Japanese, born in Hong Kong. They do not believe you. No, you are Canadian, they say. You start to doubt yourself.

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Do not jaywalk, for there are fates worse than being fined or struck by a car yet.

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You bundle up and head outside. You see your neighbours, walking on the street with no more than a cotton jacket and jeans on. "What cold?" They do not feel anything, and there is nothing you can do to make them feel anything, as soon you will be the same.

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"You're not from around here," one of the locals points out. You agree meekly, but you know they aren't as well. Hardly any of them are from this land, yet they remember a false history. They will realise soon, though, it's just a matter of time. Just a matter of time.

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It bothers you how, when it comes to Canadian post-secondary institutions, everyone outside is only aware of the University of Toronto. Surely they have not done enough research. The other universities and colleges are real.

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Your friend from the North complains of the basketball fans crowding in the street, making terrible noise, screaming, and wrecking things. You have never seen a photograph of these crowds, encountered them in person, nor spotted a basketball fan in Toronto. You go to bed early.

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They are all new buildings downtown. They are all built by different companies. The sky is filled with them. You swear you've seen this one four different times on the same street. You swear that was one different yesterday. You reload your Presto card.

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The skyscrapers of Toronto grow taller with each year, yet the Tower always looms ahead, regardless of the ambitions of the construction below. When you walk under the Tower, you keep your eyes pointed straight ahead; it is too risky to glance upwards for even a second.

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Are there eleven provinces and territories? Twelve? Thirteen? You think it's thirteen, but you keep scaring the locals who swore there were only twelve. You have long stopped asking them.

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Your friend invites you to ride Calgary Transit. The train is stuck at the station for minutes, and he lets out a defeated sigh, joking about how Transit is unreliable. You don't believe him. Something else doesn't want you to go to downtown Calgary. No one is leaving the train.

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The people of the West Province refrain from speaking its name in full. They are ashamed or frightened, only mentioning it with its two-letter shortening. Sometimes, an individual suggests a name change, but not long passes until they are never heard from again.

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Winter is coming, but the trees are still green. Suddenly, one day, on your daily commute, you notice all the trees are bare. There are no leaves on the street or in the bins.

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No one knows what Labrador is or where you can find it. All they know, all they can tell you, is that it showed up suddenly one day, not long after you were born.

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The bus is nearly empty. The windows and panels rattle loudly, you can hear it through your music. The lady who announced the stops is gone, and you can't see the driver. The rattling grows louder, angier.

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The ground is either Ice, or it is either in Deep Snow. You must tread carefully on the Ice, but you must never go into the Deep Snow.

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"Sorry," someone says, passing by. "Sorry," another one says. You do not know what they are sorry for. "Sorry." You do not know what they did to you to make you apologise. You hold back tears.

You attend a convention in America. You meet a lot of other furries who happily greet you and say they're also from Canada. When you return to Canada, you never see or hear from them again. If you ask the people you know already, none of them know who you are talking about.

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You visit a park one summer day. It is pleasant and scenic, and you feel relaxed, save for the yellow signs with symbols whom no one understands.

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The light turns green. Cars pass under. The light turns red. Cars pass under. Nobody listens to the light before it is too late. The light flickers, a silent scream of agony and woe.

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There is a street you frequent with a large metal drainage grate. On a number of occasions, you've peered down walking over it and have accidentally made eye contact.

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I'm not gonna continue this thread here anymore I don't think, but you're welcome to check birdsite for more!!

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@Kavaeric holy fuck this has to be one of my favorite threads on mastodon ever

@Kavaeric very nicely written :) ‘[Thing] Gothic’ is one of my favourite new styles of poetry because the rules are simple but nebulous and the effect is humorous but chills your spine.

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