Day by day the wind picks at the roof and the weeds creep across the terraces. — J. M. Coetzee

But this is not a place of words. Each syllable, as it comes out, is caught and filled with water and diffused. This is a place where bodies have their own signs. It is the home of Friday.

Nothing I have forgotten is worth the remembering.

Return to me the substance I have lost, Mr. Foe. That is my entreaty.