At the back of the room, I am stuck. It’s a room without windows, just tables and seats. A room without light, sun, view or any places for the eyes to stretch and the mind to expand. Just there my stomach plunges into convulsion, a sour taste in my mouth. Call it claustrophobia, called it philosophy, call it pleasure of the eyes, call it any name you want… the taste is clear, a short taste of annoyance, and each time I look at the non-existing windows on the wall, ma pensée ricoche bêtement, and my thoughts bounce back trapped, laughing squarely in my head.
A Fish on a Hill 