This strange, grawky house has the expression of someone being stared at, someone holding his breath underwater, hushed and expectant; this house is ashamed of itself, ashamed of its fantastic mansard rooftop, ashamed of its shoulder and large, awkward hands. But the man behind the easel is relentless; he is brutal as sunlight, and believes the house have done something horrible to the people who once lived here because now it is desperately empty, it must have done something to the sky because the sky, too, is utterly vacant and devoid of meaning. There are no trees or shrubs anywhere - the house must have done something against the earth. All that is present is a single pair of tracks straightening into distance. No trains pass. now stranger return to this place daily until the house suspect that the man, too, is desolate, desolate and even ashamed. soon the hose starts to stare frankly at the man. and somehow the empty white canvas slowly takes on the expression of someone who is unnerverd, someone holding his breath underwater. And then one day the man disappears.
