Perhaps we might grasp it this way. Two men, one in the West, one in the East, brothers. In both places, life is muted, solitary, nondescript. Here, windows are painted, switches rewired and cigarettes smoked; there, lengths swum, boxing matches prepared for, transactions made. What is it that links these things? Winter swimming pools, the sound of a bell, a bullet passing through bone? A letter can feel like a dream, the echoes it casts of Japanese businessmen, water droplets flying through the air and turtles scuttling on the shoreline, all held together by birdsong. Yet what happens when the fire burns, the images start to disintegrate and you can no longer dream? The places in the city are there to take their place; empty, impassive, bathed in the cold light of dawn. The money has changed hands, we can head south together, whisper to yourself that the night is just space. James Lattimer