You do not expect to see it when you catch a glimpse from the alleyway, a tiny street which itself has been forgotten. An alleyway whose cobbles, somehow surviving, are a memento of a far gone age, somewhere, somewhen. The lofty town house. It has character, certainly, but the owner has seen fit to work it into something unsettlingly beyond time. He creates an extension here, a strangeness there, built with whatever he can find, whatever happens to be at hand.
It is an ever growing conscience, a living house, held together only with the madness that has conceived of its parts. Tumble-down, tumble-up, a reconfiguration of atoms. You picture its rooms, imagine them suddenly shrinking. The spaces within are too small, overly intimate, not-real.
But the house does not fall. Rather than collapse, it has found that by drawing on its anger, frustration, unfulfilled potential, it could cheat its destiny and achieve permanence, perhaps even love.
You ask yourself, ‘Where is this? And what?’, not giving yourself time to form an answer, beginning again on your journey home. The day goes on, always, somewhere else.