John described his Spadina Avenue apartment as a two-bedroom with lots of light and very high ceilings. He neglected to mention it was a subterranean hovel with tiled floors, one stripped-wire cot and a tiny barred window evocative of Alcatraz. He also failed to note that his place was an open studio, which he and his three-legged cat hoped to share, sans wall or curtain, with a handpicked stranger. When I asked John where he slept, he curled back his upper lip, cackled with glee and said, "Sleep?"