Toronto

The Wayward Princess cruised effortlessly across the water. Heavy rain struck the boat and streamed down the sides.

On the mid-deck, the pulsing flashes of green and red that lit up a separated, rectangular wooden section stood in stark contrast to the stillness of the lake and the watercraft that were parked along the shore. As the dancers grew utterly engrossed, the melodies became their voice and the drums, the beating of their hearts.

The constant pitter-patter of water droplets beating against the windows began to cease. I peered outside. The stairs that lead to the upper deck were soaked and squished like sponges when I stepped on them.

Looking out the bow from the uppermost level of the boat, I noticed the streaks of light painted over the ripples of the water; most were white but there were splashes of colour here and there, red, purple, and blue.

Then I turned to the skyline. I could see tiny squares of light blinking on and off in the buildings that lined the edges of the city. I reminded myself that with each light gone dark, another restless soul was overcome by slumber, drifting off into the land of dreams. The thought made me grow tired.

My mind wandered. My eyes flitted around aimlessly.

To the red stripe of light that ran along the length of the CN tower.

The soft glow of the moon, suspended low in the sky.

A buoy silhouetted by the light from a scrolling LED sign on the shore, something about boats and docking.

The minuscule spots above me, specks of light that I could hardly make out in the murky night, millions of miles away.

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