Once upon a time, there was an aging tower block in Toronto, a place where people would wait for their asylum applications to be processed, a place you’d hardly call inviting. The trains would rattle alongside, the police would wait by the lifts to prevent robberies and the netting before the balconies would flutter, a reminder for people not to jump. A place of hardship perhaps, but also one of imagination, for waiting offers fertile soil for legends, fables and dreams. And so the inhabitants would repeat stories to themselves, just as they would repeat what should or should not be said at their asylum hearings. There’s the tale of the dog left to starve in an empty flat, the tale of the lawyer’s child, and the tale of the boy who woke up to find himself transformed into a bird. You’d think all these stories could make for a mesmerising film and you’d be right, but what sort of film would it be? An observational documentary, a family portrait they themselves help mould, a Kafka-esque fairy story, the making-of the same? But there are no clear explanations here, for it is also a place of infinite shifting boundaries. If you want answers, you might as well ask the devil.