I'm in Montreal for a few days. The hotel is grand, though the room is small-ish. The bed is large, the bath is wee.
I couldn't wait for the journey, because I love sitting on a train, and five hours is the perfect amount of time to do so. But then I got restless, and I couldn't concentrate on my book. Chuck Klosterman's Fargo Rock City is just not as good as his Killing Yourself to Live.
This morning I have a meeting, so I went to bed early last night. Except I kept waking up, and what sleep I had was very thin, and just before I woke up, I had a dream about a flesh-eating monster that could squeeze through tiny holes. That was new. Usually I dream about making out with someone's uncle.
Things used to be more fun.
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