The Strand

As space settlement becomes plausible, we must ask whether leaving Earth is a necessity or an irreversible mistake. “Earth is the cradle of humanity, but one cannot live in a cradle forever.” – Konstantin Tsiolkovsky Few quotes capture the optimism behind space exploration better than this one. For over a century, scientists, futurists, and philosophers have imagined humanity expanding beyond Earth. Today, that idea feels increasingly realistic.

A student rewrite of The Wasteland’s “IV. Death by Water” Ursula the undergrad, a fortnight dead Forgot seas of students, the “Cs get degrees” itch And the Quercus notifs. The Canadian cold Stripped their skin of all colour. A precious inch Of prestige persists in a mâché degree Processions of parents attend the queue Before begrudging a post-graduate life Consider undergrads, who were once as happy as you.

An unfortunately-prescient guide to UofT’s best fallout shelters You know, I wrote this pitch call as a funny play on the Wasteland theme, but with recent political developments, it’s become more potentially relevant than I’d anticipated. If it’s 2027 and you’re currently using this newspaper to shield your head from the irradiated soot-rain of what was once Toronto, then feel free to put the blame on me for presaging all this – in all likelihood, I’ll be dead by then.

The best and worst places for your waste to land Who would deny that shitting on a good toilet is as desirable as popping out a big chunk of shit? I have not yet exhausted UofT’s wide array of washrooms, but some are more memorable than others, like a fecal smell lingering on a finger… To provide some comedic insights, here are the washrooms rated based on how funny they are. Note: due to personal limitations, only women’s and gender-neutral washrooms have been assessed.

And then, forgetting it for good Out of all the pastimes I have picked up during my first year at UofT, my proudest would have to be creative writing, and my least proud would (unfortunately) be doomscrolling on Instagram. Having only started using the app last year out of a desire to be as fully integrated into the university community as possible, this more acceptable alternative to Samsung messenger eventually turned into yet another time void.

Oh my love, there is ruin That I have dipped my toes in A polluted connection An exploitative relation No matter how much I do I can never untouch you Pure water mixes with oil Estranged from truth, taught to revel in constant toil Product foundational over quality To be loved is to be a commodity No matter how much I do I can never untouch you This is the anthropocene, isn’t it?

Waterboard at seven, Legacy parkade at eleven; she reclined in her seat, black plastic smoked to crystal, and with hand like pale candelabra reached for my arm under the gridded flicker. ‘You haven’t talked to me all day.’ ‘I’ll be leaving to-morrow.

Everyone is dead. You are born completely alone. Would you feel lonely? At first, the answer seems obvious. Probably not. Loneliness usually feels like being cut off from other people, and if you have never known other people, then what exactly would you be missing? You would have nothing to compare your life to. No memory of friendship, no memory of family, and no memory of conversation. In that sense, it seems strange to say you would feel lonely in the ordinary way.

Picture this: the world, in all of its peculiar glory, decides to end tomorrow. Imagine that this sudden apocalypse came with the token doomsday tragedies—barren, withering farmlands, desiccated fisheries, ration lines sprawling on and on and on. Imagine, somehow, that you survive. Over time, though, a question remains: What food will survive with you? Supply lines to grocery stores and supermarkets might have been severed, and diseases might have ravaged cultivable cropland.

The skyline is sharp and jagged So when smog slaps it, Rain bleeds, thick and oily and hesitant when Every clock broke last week in Lundentūn; This went unnoticed by all except the fellow too bored to kill himself. Omnispasmodic forgot where he was going – (Where was he going?) The destination is of little consequence so long as he keeps moving. Ghosts descend the escalators like penitents And huddle separately beneath pulsing fluorescent bulbs.