Spadina streetcar, no room for more.

Asian woman, mid 20s, wearing a brown parka, black jeans tucked into knee high winter boots and a pleasantly relaxed expression considering she's practically being forced onto my lap.

Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi (Random House)

Page 170:

If I turned towards books, it was because they were the only sanctuary I knew, one I needed in order to survive, to protect some aspect of myself that was now in constant retreat.

This time of year she switches the light bulbs, something brighter, more natural, letting the outside in. Immediately, she changes them back, preferring the protective warmth of the dim yellow. Her bed is large and inviting, surrounded by books and pillows, a childhood pencil drawing tacked to the wall behind it. Scrap bits of paper litter her table, things to remember, things to inspire, things to keep her on track. Her work clothes are lined up in order, collars pressed, shoes laid out. She's ground exactly enough coffee to last the week, set the timer for the next morning, and washed and dried her favourite mug, handle set to the right, beside the bowl for her yoghurt and flax. She settles into her chair and pulls the blanket to her chin. Clutching the remote by her side she stares at the blank television and waits for the oven to preheat. It's been a long winter.