Down downtown. West of Yonge, South of Queen. Condos sprouting everywhere; gaping pits aspiring to claw the sky.

At ground level, the remains of upgrades from the 70s and 80s give the illusion of ugliness. But if you look up — not way up, but just above the flash of rusting signage — you find unexpected history. Victorian houses slump behind previous generations of growth. At best they may be recycled as facades for the next generation. At worst they are lost, forever in the shadow of the city rising from the rubble of its history.

Younger than we think we are. Older than we believe we are, or than we want to be.