November ninth, Toronto, Ontario. I've just finished a rather magnificent falafel wrap from a Turkish restaurant down the street, where the people have taken to treating me with such extraordinary kindness that I find myself increasingly reluctant to go anywhere else. There's a cup of tea involved, naturally, and a woman whose understanding of hospitality seems to have survived whatever dreadful transformation has overtaken the rest of modern commerce.

The cold is settling in around Lake Ontario, and I'm sitting in the car, contemplating the peculiar events of the past twenty-four hours. I've slept rather badly, though the circumstances were sufficiently ridiculous that I suspect I might have difficulty explaining them to anybody who hasn't already made peace with the general absurdity of my existence.

There are some encouraging developments, at least. The debt is finally approaching its end, and I've got a bowl of soup waiting for me. I've also been thinking about Jean-Claude Van Damme, among other things, which may or may not be a consequence of the exhaustion.

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