Buildings have always made you feel small, looked down at you from their multistorey heights with an unfiltered double-glazed condescencion. Heavy eyed, you pass them and think about the locked doors, the latched windows, the gardens that they refuse to reveal. They are attractive only when hit by the sun, when rain floods. Those landscapes left without concrete scarring push fear into your lungs, with air so pure it hurts to inhale. The trees taste like optimism but you won’t notice at first, because you will be too absorbed in the struggled drowning of your dirtied past in clear blue lakes. Leaves stroke at your pale face; ferns and pine and maple, all vying for your touch, your gentle tucking in between sheets of paper, sheets of cotton.