November twelfth, Toronto, Ontario, and I've woken up considerably later than intended, surrounded by people who've already begun their working day. There's something faintly humiliating about climbing out of a cot while your colleagues are going about their ordinary affairs, though they've been remarkably decent about the whole thing, and I suppose I ought to be grateful that nobody decided to wake me with a broom.

I've been getting back into photography lately, and thinking about the curious things an image can preserve beyond whatever happens to be visible within its borders. An empty doorway, an unremarkable corner of a room, the ordinary geometry of a place you've passed through a hundred times. Some of these photographs contain entire afternoons for me, though I doubt anybody else would know what to make of them.

And then there are the objects we carried around as children, those magnificent pieces of cheap plastic and cardboard upon which we invested such tremendous fortunes of imagination, ambition, and occasionally our very reputations. I've been remembering some of those things, and a rather formidable young gentleman named John French.

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