In the house where my wife and I live there is a small room. It is very narrow, with a single window. There is nothing in it. A couple of years ago, by chance I looked inside and saw arranged in the window a pair of little brass pissing-boys I had brought back from Brussels for my twins—one who has since died—and two large, red flowers in a green bottle.
It appeared to have no purpose as the door was always shut and the room was never used. I took a photo of it with my Polaroid app and thought no more about it. I looked again the following week, and the arrangement . . .