A house of monastic landscapes, books piled up from ground, scattered randomly from tripping feet and tossing searches. A house made from the wilderness, made from the spiraling cosmos which can only be observed from within itself. It is a place left for narration, for observation, and for eventual transformation, by means of outside observers.

This landscape of quantum elements, as viewed from a fractured mirror at its core, is the only way to watch the descent, to watch the piles grow. So grows the worship of the void; the void as perspective, the void as a place of garnering new truth as the previous iterations freeze as they move from here to memory. Move from genuflection to words scribbled in yet another rambling notebook which sit in shifting towers like sandstone in wind: the perpetual movement from structure to chaos and back again.

A house like monastic landscapes, teetering from use and overuse as the viewer gains momentum towards to the void, towards itself. Books strewn in open defiance of the void. The order imposed by a static observer sit as statuary, as idols, to the over-thinking, and overuse as implied by their own existence. The user, the architect of the towers and of their toppled sisters, must be seen as both creator and destroyer of the various orders of the observable held within this place.

The designer, and by that the viewer, is over-used, is over-thinking the system, is toppling half formed towers, is letting the quantum nature of observation maim the order that has been imposed; is letting entropy leak from the stacks haphazardly, insulting the void with their poorly designed sacrifice.