Last film at the Elgin (Angel); last film at the Scoshe (Smiley Face). I won't even have time to get down there tomorrow or the next day for a final burrito or a trip to the Snail. The grid is collapsing into a triangle; soon it will become a corridor, before it's simply a dot, and then nothing at all. The Rye-high will close this thing and then the candle will go out. Half an hour after Smiley Face ended I was sprinting down the endless corridors under the Ryerson, completely lost, giggling furiously, and wishing that, at the very least, I had the excuse of being stoned.

I'm into the forties tomorrow. With the end in sight I no longer feel tired. There's nothing I can do to myself in the next 48 hours that I can't recover from in the 48 following. I've gone past "punchy" and am simply at "nuisance." I lead the "arrrrhs" in the non-Midnight screenings when the piracy card comes up. When I got up to the balcony of the Elgin for the Angel screening and found almost the entirety of the thing blocked off for FedEx VIPs, I yelled out "WHAT THE FUCK ARE THESE?!" and then quipped that FedEx had mailed themselves a balcony.

Angel was lovely, entertaining, and utterly forgettable, save for another complex and fascinating female character to add to the pile of this year's winnings. Anna Faris can go on that pile too for Smiley Face - she was remarkable, and the film was hilarious. Far from "stoner comedy," this was in fact "stoner horror movie," remarkably accurate in its ability to present the perceptual disconnects of being freaked out and stoned, and then manipulating those sensations to get at the paranoia angle. I loved it.

Flash Point barely kept me awake till its promised "whiplash-inducing final half hour," but when we were staggering out of the theatre at 2 a.m. and I was joking that I had in fact gotten into a fight exactly like the final fight in the film, Matty Price returned with "were you in the bathroom?" completing the loop on a 5-day-old joke that no one will remember a week from now. We are in a green and open country.

Every time I have boarded the Queen streetcar this week, the first few seats have been half-buried in sand.