By night the lights inside shine brighter than those without: every room blazes with a mirror whose inhabitants pace like Rilke’s panther, the more solitary for the other people trapped with them. Dann geht ein Bild hinein, an image penetrates the muscles and nerves, takes flight like a tunnel through the body, hollowed out by time, und hört im Herzen auf zu sein, and halts being in the heart. False mirror of my own eyes confronts me at every turn until my fingers find the lightswitch and the opposite buildings glow again, ranging yellow windows over the street like bars.