You find yourself on the top floor of a building. The last flight of stairs seemed especially steep, and the landing especially precarious, like a nest of sticks perched on a high branch. You look around – it’s not being used for much. Some flattened carboard boxes are leaning against the wall, a trio of water dispenser bottles are sitting on the floor next to them, and discreetly moving over everything the sweet, pink smell of a cleaning agent. There are no lights on, only the daylight pooling onto the linoleum floor, and then penetrating a little into the corridor. The view out is onto a back entrance – some bins, a parked car. Someone has left a window open – the breeze that enters feels protective, as if to say everything will clear up by itself. The sound of passing voices down below rises up the stairwell and makes the shape of the roof. They are elsewhere, and yet they are here participating in the building’s tranquil geometry. Perhaps, sometime, you were leaving a building as part of a fire drill, even if it was when you were at school, and as you were leaving you would hear the alarm, but also many other, fainter, alarms going off in distant parts of the building you did not know. Somehow, you find yourself now in those distant parts, although there is no alarm, only the sense of having struggled to imagine this place sometime before as you heard it in the distance, and of having enjoyed the thought of inhabiting such a far-off, incomplete place, looking, as you left the building, to the sky and the treetops for inspiration as you assembled it, suspended in a daydream. How did you get here? Did someone send you? Did you come looking for something? Did you wander, for a moment?