He had stumbled upon a dark continent slowly sinking into his unconsciousness. That strange land he called Insomnia where no stranger had ever stepped. Each familiar face beckoned to his; those wandering eyes boring into his own vacuous slits squinted toward the sun. Every transfiguration documented his uncanny travels to the dim-lit recess of being. In awaking he grasped after each well-mapped path, but the contours and shapes of this land’s oneirography dissolves and disappears utterly in the day. Tonight he will purchase another one-way ticket toward his final destination and follow that thread down. His bags already packed with a presentiment of death. To doze, to snooze among the mazes of dreams. To ask which is he is to already answer: minotaur or labyrinth?