A house! It has the grandeur of a sullen mood. Part of it appears to be disappearing into its eaves; other parts are completely hidden by the branches of a tree, and the branches are blossoming, and the petals appear to be falling from the house, pink and white. Wires stretch from the house into the sky; from here they appear to connect to a cloud; now the cloud is passing; now they are connected to the blue behind the cloud. What sort of signals is this house receiving? Its windows are closed even though the sun is shining on them. Still, maybe the house is cold. The corner of the porch reaches right toward us! It wants to take our notebook away, it wants to record us. The house is not flat, it has depths, passages, darkness–something might be inside! even though the house is also subject to the illusion of a vanishing point that the house itself stands in the way of us seeing. But someone might come to one of the windows–that would be enough, wouldn’t it? A face, even a shadow, would be more alluring, promising more mysteries and disappointments, than the point toward which everything is vanishing.
(The day, sometimes it goes on for so long before the sun has even set.)