At the edge of a field in West Flanders is a strange construction. A box of sorts, a brown, corrugated iron cabin with a steeply sloping roof that faces across fields towards a narrow channel of river. The construction has but a single window, vertical, two fists wide, that runs up the entire front face of it. From the field the box seems to rest lightly on the land. From across the river it seems to blend darkly into a grove of trees. From behind, it has double doors that are reached by a flagstone path that winds through birch trees and ivy. There is something otherworldly about this cabin, perched at the edge of this field.
Inside is an oval table with green leather inlay and a carver chair with an emerald green cushion. The walls and ceiling are upholstered in calico, unbleached, stretched as tightly as a prepared canvas. The floor is carpeted in piercing purple. There is insulation and heating and a desk light. Early each morning the cabin is occupied. Dark outside, warm inside. Sixty stories are slowly taking shape as dark turns to dawn and the willows by the river come slowly into view through that narrow strip of window.