The temperature has dropped dramatically in the past few hours. Outside, there’s no traffic in the Annex, and a chill wind is shaking the leaves, curling and whipping its way down the streets. There are at least two skunks out there, on Dalton Road, north of the 24-hour grocery; they raise their tails at me as I walk past, but I’m calm and unafraid. Don’t worry, we can share this space.

The goal is to fold urban space in non-Euclidean directions and tuck it into an extra dimension, locking it into place in a stable geometric so the angles don’t bulge and snap out as if God’s suitcase has burst open, spilling extra kilometres all over the downtown core. Then we’ll have room for a forest beneath the city, for foxes and deer to run free and for trees to grow, without giving up our skyscrapers and museums and Taco Bells.

Tonight, with winter ghosting its way out of the wind outside, the chill still on my chin and the dull bass rumble of the furnace in the other room, I can almost believe it’s already there.