I was fifteen the first time I spent the night on the street. I was eighteen the last night I spent on the street. I’m about to turn forty-six as I write this (note: I'm 52 now, it's still true though). There are elements of my personality that are still stuck on the street.

Fighting is a really bad idea. If you fight, you will get hurt, you will get injured, you will hurt other people, and your psyche will bear the scars of that hurt. I love to fight, and I’ve done it much of my life.

I felt a sense of madness, freedom bubbling over, through my veins. I was running down the street with my best friend. We were young, so young and stupid. The night air was warm, cloudless. No stars, the city lights made stars impossible. A city of millions isn’t the place for astronomers. The madness we felt was because, at fifteen, we were on our own. Things had come to a head with my mother, and I was no longer living with her. My friend Michael (not his real name) was in the same situation. Although for me, and I think for him as well, it was something deeper. I was still profoundly wounded by my return to Canada, leaving my beloved jungle behind and trying to make sense of a place where the world was devoted to cars and giant buildings. Toronto was not the best place for my return.