Could one think of confinement as though it were an eye? Just as a glimpse, let’s say, following the pedestrian who goes around the corner. Where do cities lead to? Otherness holds beyond a limit which might only be desirable, just like a volume of uncompleted vision: spreading, surrounding objects with rhythm; displaying sight and body in a horizon where both are possible. And here one could gaze at the traces of somewhere else.
Though just a possibility. Why shouldn’t one think of the city as a glimpse, a whisper, maybe a clue? At night, for instance, seen from above. Long geometrical figures, their size uncertain, only shape, blurry lines on a black canvas. Or during the daytime, amidst. Tall façades razing the skies, sealed in every window, the backyards only whispered by the traffic. And also in the garbage, hope, billboards. In every case numerous hands. And yet a silhouette. Mirror, repetition, pictures, but a silhouette. Always a silhouette. Thus the city has a torso, a forehead, a nape. Desired loudly by a thousand voices, continuous and always new. Even if it may never come to be. If it may have never existed.