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They stand; because falling is the work of the earth. The earth is always patient, always ready to swallow whatever sooner or later grows tired. But these have not grown tired yet. They insist on not falling.
The walls are lined up beside one another—wall after wall. Like hands held at the sides of your eyes to narrow your view of the world; or perhaps so that the world cannot see you. The gaps are tight. Light passes through them, but never completely. Everything is seen only partially; the rest remains in speculation.
In a place like this, seeing is never complete.
And perhaps that is enough.
The only way is to continue. Yet it feels more like a long waiting—waiting for something that may never arrive, and still, everything has been arranged for its coming.
The walls speak quietly to one another; not with sound, but through repetition. A silent chorus of standing.
This villa is a tribute to someone who stood before: Paul Rudolph.
But every tribute is, in truth, a quiet confession—that nothing begins from zero. Everything is a continuation of the footsteps of someone who passed along this path before us.
We are nothing more than this as well:
a continuation of lines that have already been drawn,
a continuation of walls that have already stood.
In the end, what remains is simple:
One must go on.
One cannot go on.
One goes on.