It was the same regular bullshit, though I was a little hopeful when he told us not to pack up right away. Then I realised he was only trying to keep us from running out on him before his supervisor could arrive. Carter and I had been through this same scenario when we got booked looking for the roof at the Royal York. His supervisor came and tried to make us feel bad about the crime we had committed. He told us that we should be thankful that by the grace of God he wasn't calling the police--that our story about just wanting to record some narrative was probably legit, so we shouldn't need to pay the $72 trespass fine and appear in court. Thank you kind security guard; kind servant of God. You have spared us the horrors of a system so blind with it's own shit that it can't see through the shades of right and wrong. Fuck you.

We had to fill out some sheet, which Carter and I expertley lied our way through--giving false names and addresses with straight expressions and just enough submission to hurry these fools on with the carrying out of their trained tricks. Then we were escorted out of the building, pausing to look at the mounted camera for a smile and a picture for the guards to remember us by. What a waste of time and energy. It also really sucks to burn that place. The ballroom is one of the dramatic images of my turned and yearned youth. If only we could get to the couch room once more...

It turned out for the better I guess. Carter came over the next night and we got some excellent coverage for the narrative, shot in the leg scream, and crossing the ground moans. I gotta go now. Enjoy this token story from the moments of my life.

PEACE - Tristan