Wow, eighteen years ago,
At the film festival, me a driver,
Just new to Toronto,
I'd pop into the office on Carlton,
Stop by to say hello,
He'd stand from his desk of fifty folders,
Then we'd go to the garage for a smoke,
We would talk steady in that ten minutes,
Life, dreams and anecdotes,
The cigarette was only a pretense,
The head rush hit my soul,
I never quit,
Even if months had flown,
We would meet for a beer at some Firkin,
Getting high on the discussion, alone.
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