In der Morgenflut, I encounter the personification of my subconscious: a senior farmer in white overalls all by himself conducting with goodwill and grace — in a small room, where his only mode of transmission is this chalkboard where he instructs me to write down my (three) fundamental desires and I follow suit in some indecipherable syllabary via chalk placed naturally between my nimblest fingers at which he brims with delight, hinging on some door contraption cohesively leading at once out of — a train station equipped with hovering rails into a nerve-racking airport mega of scope, doubling as a patience arena from the previous landmark, sidelining the terrifying zoning of Toronto’s subway system. And as I emerge from that looping ocean, I realize his trademark is Quamdiu.
