Bloor Line, read and reread.

Caucasian woman, early 20s, with thick black hair and glasses, wearing a black vest and red fleece, carrying a black and orange computer bag, dripping umbrella hanging from the strap.

Nightwood, Djuna Barnes (New Directions)

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He thought: "She has the touch of the blind who, because they see more with their fingers, forget more in their minds." Her fingers would go forward, hesitate, tremble, as if they had found a face in the dark. When her hand finally came to rest, the palm closed; it was as if she had stopped a crying mouth. Her hand lay still and she would turn away. At such moments Felix experienced an unaccountable apprehension. The sensuality in her hands frightened him.

Alice pulled her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, the latticework of the bay’s ripples bouncing behind her eyelids. The breeze licked past her ears, playful and warm, tickling up and out of her summer shorts. She recognized the familiar swoop of hummingbirds in heat, the male chasing tail of the female along a perfect semi-circle, an arc so perfect it was as if they were strung on wire, pullied back and forth by an invisible hand.