I(L).

The whole world lives in Montreal.
There are the fashion-parasites that spend their lives in the confines of glossy-floored boutiques, acquiring Gucci sunglasses, while their husbands drive around in polished porsches, waiting for the black-thong-under-white-dress saleswoman to point them in the direction of purchasing as many crisply lined suits as their money-stained fingers can hold.
The callgirls who walk the fishnet streets if you want a ride, a ride you can't get in your new BMW, no matter how smoothly it handles the bumps. They always remind me of myself.
The jokers on the corner, whose lives consist of teaching old dogs new tricks. Rest assured, they'll be back tomorrow. They actually need the money in the hat. And we all know you can all spare a dollar.
There are the girls and boys who are genuinely having fun, beating the past that stays in the back of their head, the back of their head where they're still winning. Winning, winning, winning winningwinning.
The businessmen who have no time for their families, that they've made and forgotten; they have too many stock options too think of anything else, you see. Their families don't want to admit it, but it's the businessmens' money they want, and that's the reason their wives are having affairs instead of ridding themselves of the radiation their headsets cause. I doubt the businessmen would care. But you're damn well sure they'd stage a hell of a show if and when they found out.
The painters painting on the sides of the road aren't actually as deep as you think. They just know how to use their talent. That's why they're done what is a work of art to you, but crap to them in about five minutes, and they sell it to you for a thousand pennies.
Whatever. I guess everyone wins here.
And oh, the tourists. They're all watered-down versions of the types mentioned and more.
But baby, everyone is lost and found and after money. I promise.