Basel is an interesting place. The river crosses the city and the tide is strong; the sky is often cloudy. In the south bank, houses were piled like books on a shelf.

The lots are thin, like narrow alleys that flow into the river, but still, they go up as high as possible in slim and elegant forms. How would someone feel while entering a single house this tall? Maybe small, maybe not. It would be empty of things but full of atmosphere and echoes of footsteps.

The scale of each sound would be the scale of the imagination. Here, within this white stone with no sharp edges, could live a writer. Many beautiful chairs would be arranged in the warm wood floors in a way that the writer could sit, lie down, rest or sleep. He could read, write, imagine, dream; he would have light and silence.

On the top of a fragile ladder, would be a window: a view to the river, a goal. To see the world outside shouldn’t be an accident: it should be the culmination of a journey: you must want to do it. Maybe there is no space for another book on that shelf. Maybe there is.