I met Leonard Cohen’s ghost along the canal one night in the muddy in-between of winter and spring. It stood on the pedestrian bridge south of the market. Smoking and staring off at the tops of the downtown buildings.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” I said. “Sorry, I mean in this part of the city.”
His ghost shrugged. Sparrows sang. But they shouldn’t. Not at this time of year, or night. The train began to cross its bridge half a mile west. The both of us turned to watch it.
“These late ones go on forever,” the ghost said.