Heard at the corner of Queen and Bathurst, slumped on the sidewalk, cigarette being passed over torn jeans to waiting hands: "Fuck, you won't even sell your soul to me? What kind of a day is this?"
I'm aching for rooftop beers and my lofted ceiling and my Brie in the next room.
But this isn't just temporary. This is my new neighbourhood. Queen Street West. The shock will fade.
I think I'm going to hide inside until the world outside slows down. Or at least until I've perfected my form-perfect rotation in the air, slow-motion like a sixth-grade science video, feet and legs poised and ready.