One needn’t consult a calendar to know what day it is. The sky has turned a deep crimson, your heart beats a polyrhythmic cantata of fear that scores the hollow thud of foot on pavement. You find yourself, through no will of your own, bound towards your designated polling station. The beast of compromise, asphalt arms outstretched, beckons, dares, you to make a choice. Pen on paper bleeds democracy while you check and double check to ensure your will has been cast properly. You stumble outside into an unusually hot autumn day. It has been said, but what will be done? One vote. Your are significant only in your insignificance and your secret shame is the desperate hope your chosen mayor, councillor, and school trustee will win by one vote. YOUR VOTE. One can but dream, so pour yourself a scotch, and lay back in the psychic recliner of a job well done. Tomorrow there will be a new mayor, and you can return to the sweet bosom of ignorance and apathy for another four years. Of the prospective mayors, what will the city look like?