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Go Fish
A randomly generated idea®
Go fish.
This is what he did every morning before breakfast. Until he left home. It is more difficult now. Water isn't as easy to get to and then he has to think of his commute. That seems to eat more time that could be better spent fishing.
Saturdays are now the day for fishing.
Early morning. The sun isn't up yet. He gathers his tackle, his creel, his rod. He walks along Bloor Street to the Humber .
Go fish.
He finds a spot down river from the bridge. Here, balanced between the TTC and the Queensway, he finds quiet. The Humber isn't the best water he's fished, but it's the closest to home now. The Don is terrible and the Credit is too far away.
He thinks, as he rolls a cigarette, that if he concentrates his gaze on the opposite bank it's almost like being home. The water is silent, swallows dash around in pursuit of invisible insects. He can't even smell the city. Just water, grass, wind.
He stands at the waters edge. He casts. He's surrounded by sweet tobacco smoke and still morning air. He lets the slow moving water carry him away as his feet sink into the mud.
Go fish.