When people moved about me I found that they left their shape in the air, as if they had been wearing the air as clothing which stayed moulded even after they struggled out of it, for make no mistake, one struggles out of air because always it fits too tightly, ever since the first tight squeeze of it zipped into the lungs at the first breath, pinching at the tongue and the throat and setting up the cry which some take as a sign of admission into life but which is really only a protest that from the first moment of living the air does not fit, it has just not been made to measure, and all future breaths will cause pinching and pain, and how many times until death and nakedness will one be forced to cut off parts of oneself, to whittle at, mutilate the whole in order to accommodate the intransigent shape of air?[1]

On top of a hill that was once on the outskirts of the city, next to a vast plaza surrounded by scattered but tall trees, not far from a brick wall that is so long, tall and domineering that one cannot escape permanent awareness of its presence, there is a refined single-storey building.