In one of my dreams about the Labyrinth, there is a theater in the top floor of my dorm, luxuriantly swathed in black. When instead of entering the theater I push aside the curtains at the end of the hallway I pass backstage into a riot of boxes and abandoned furniture. By navigating through here I arrive in the Labyrinth proper, and climb through a dozen stories or more of attic. Sometimes the stairs leap straight ahead, a rickety span across unfathomable dark chasms, while elsewhere they twist vertiginously and pass through forgotten chambers at odd angles. Where the stairs end I can clamber among great timber rafters where they join in a sharply peaked roof.
This dream was so vivid that when I awoke I was compelled to find photographs of the building and remind myself that there is no top-floor theater, that the attic, spacious and eerie though it is, cannot contain a dozen floors of anything. Even counting just the spaces that clearly do exist, our urban environment contains vastly more space than an open field where we have built upwards and colonized the sky. The rabbit holes do not just extend below ground; sometimes you have to ascend.