The house here is only promised. Like the embryo of an idea. A space between seeing and recognizing. This is a house that cannot be inhabited, yet never ceases to be a place. It is always out of reach, always beyond the horizon of perception—even when you are looking straight at it. The fence does not hold a boundary, yet it remains an obstacle; they are like questions no one will answer. The earth waits patiently, but it has nothing to wait for—the house has already ceased to be mine. The ground reflects light by absorbing it. There is no movement of air here, no scents, no sound. Only a reminder remains of what might have been. A state of standing before your own past, but being unable to enter it—because it has become a concept, not a place. The transcendent house is not abandoned; it is dissolved. And yet it is here. Like a final breath of recognition. You look at it and know: this was my home. But now it is neither mine, nor anyone else's. It has been stripped of inhabitants, of objects, of warmth. A pure idea of the familiar. And in that purity lies my deepest longing. #1