I am visiting Canada.  It is beautiful.  Sunny and 20 degrees C.  I go to the library and read myself into oblivion.

Come out in a daze.  Not sure if I am real.  Not sure if the world around me is real.  Not sure exactly where I am.  Stab of panic.  I fight.  What's the point of anti-anxiety treatment where panic attacks are side effects?

Miss the last step of the entrance stairs, jolting my body into at least a little more reason.  Saint-Saens on the ipod (5 reasons to fear apple.  5 reasons to fear google.  cracked.  be paranoid).  Better, a little.  Still not sure where I am.  A street saxophonist plays random notes.  His tone is brassy and flat.  My brain and body are in a state of disconnect.  I feel nothing.

I wander.  Pita Pit.  Subway.  Quiznos.  Starbucks.  Am I in Canada or America?  We are infiltrating.  We are condemning the masses.

Chicago.  Skip.  I love the song, but sometimes it still pangs.  Not in the mood for memories.  Bacchanale.  Better.

I pass street signs that tell me I am here.  Validation.  I exist.  If I walk far enough, I will be at the gardens.  I was there earlier today, watching the ducks skim smooth ripples into the largest pond.

I turn the corner at the entrance gate.  As long as I head downhill I am ok.  I want to go and sit by the water again, until I can feel.  But it's evening and I am not sure how far I am from my couch.  No one has expressed concern over my wandering alone, but I don't wish to test the safety of the city alone at night.  The dark hides people, lets them be something they really are.  Animal instincts are stronger under the moon.

There is a hubcap hung on a high tree branch.  I look away and look back to make sure I am not hallucinating.  It is still there.  I wish I had a camera so I could document this moment.  Show it to you to prove I am not insane.  Though I suppose that is not much proof.  My condemning evidence piles up daily like stacks of newspapers at a dead man's house.

Ghost Love Song.  There is a little girl pushing a stroller with her mom.  She's dressed nicely except for her shoes.  They are ruby red slippers, a la Oz.  Scuff marks obliterate the original shine.  There is a hole in one toe, and I smile imagining the fights she and her mom must have over whether they can be thrown out yet or not.  I bet she refuses to wear any other pair of shoes.

A blue Pontiac Sunfire passes.  It looks like the one parked outside the place I'm staying.  An encouraging sign.  They are all over the place here.  Everyone drives a Pontiac.  I hate Sunfires.  The ex has a green one that I spent too much time in.  I have ridden and driven in it to an anticlimactic ending.

Another street sign.  I know where this road is.  All I have to do is follow it.  I do.  I hold the gate for two tall boys who do not thank me.

The blue Sunfire is in the parking lot.