to go to
on art etc.
Every house is a mechanical forgery of the human body... the whole inside is a sort of stomach that attempts to digest objects, objets d'art perhaps, but objects nonetheless. Here is where the feigned affliction installs itself, always hungry for more objects or plethoric because of excess. It seems like the whole life of the common house is a form of indigestion, an unhealthy body that suffers slight illnesses, that demands constant repairs and remedies to survive. It is a marvel that we, its occupants, are not driven crazy in it and with it; perhaps it is a sort of insanity we have put into it.