Looking-glass.

I am in the new place, perched on a dining room chair, surrounded by stacks of empty boxes and half-unpacked stuff and this laptop and a bowl of lemon spinach couscous, which is what I am eating for dinner (okay, that and some salad and some blueberries. I didn't bring over much food). The radio's on, and my towels are in the dryer downstairs, and I should probably go collect my duvet from the clothesline out back before it gets dark; the sunset's creeping along the wall of the house next door outside the window.

I am totally kick-in-the-face exhausted. All the furniture fits: better than I hoped, actually. This already feels like home.

I'm also internet-enabled, since somebody left an unsecured wireless network lying around. Thank you, anonymous neighbour! So that intermittent-until-Thursday alert is hereby cancelled.

I should get back onto my sad, sore feet and straggle down to Bloor for breakfast groceries shortly, and then grab a shower, and probably topple unceremoniously into bed after that. But this is just to say that I am here; and that it is a very strange feeling to watch the home drain slowly out of a place until it's just a couple rooms, smaller than you thought; and that the quivering stress that has been my life for the last six weeks or so is showing signs of having been very, very worth it.

This has been your wire report from Utopia, and good evening.