I went inland, far from the river, where only flies reign. I have traveled great distances without any specific purpose. I have not found anything.
Oh, yes! I discovered in the middle of the forest a dead village where life has yielded all the space to the vacuum and to some mercantile activities. Are we not in the 21st century after all?
All this reminded me of the Home of Asterion, the short story of Borges.
All the titles of the photos are extracted from the House of Asterion,
Borges, Jorge Luis. 1964. The house of asteron. In Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings, ed. Donald A. Yates and James E. Irby, London: Penguin. pp. 170-172
The house is the same size as the world; or rather it is the world.
It is true that I never leave my house, but it is also true that its doors (whose numbers are infinite) are open day and night to men and to animals as well.
Another ridiculous falsehood has it that I, Asterion, am a prisoner
And he will also find a house like no other on the face of this earth. (There are those who declare there is a similar one in Egypt, but they lie.)
He will find here no female pomp nor gallant court formality, but he will find quiet and solitude.
There are roofs from which I let myself fall until I am bloody.
Every nine years nine men enter the house so that I may deliver them from evil. I hear their steps or their voices in the depths of the stone galleries and I run joyfully to find them.
"Would you believe it, Ariadne" said Theseus "The Minotaur scarcely defended himself."