We’re told to step into a vessel, and sit around the light. We’re told to close our eyes, and then the words we were told before – photometry, luminous, have their say. The colours, I think, are strong enough to hurt even through my eyelids, given long enough and if I looked for long enough, though what’s happening now is not looking; there’s no option of sight or gaze and in a mirroring of this my body does nothing, my hands do nothing. Maybe what I’m feeling is some degree of safety, seeing as this structure’s entrance faces into a wall and I cannot from any angle see back onto the street. To find me you would have to look, actively – come in and ask questions of this wooden shape, a sometime partition like a droplet suspended, stopped and made solid mid-air. But of course the street outside carries on, and I hear not the urban hum but voices intersecting, and a scuttling of small feet that are just now the keenest representation of panic. Still the colours are bleeding through and whirring from a brightly baubled stalk that against all intuition stays still – it is its encasement that moves and directs the colours in all directions. It’s a strobe (the word finally comes to me); stroboscopic, provoking things I cannot help. I am inside a vessel inside a room and outside a child is running, but for the speed and tautness of his steps you would think him fully grown.