Outside, we know there is traffic, we have come from there. In here they are immune. There is no weather either, only the bathe and hum of a constant temperature, the unwavering fluorescent light. Walking past each room is like peering into a display at an aquarium: furniture placed the way rocks are used—that awkward, natural touch. There’s the feel of a warehouse, shadows with the drapery of drop-sheets, which spread at their hem like water slowly creeping, sopping up the light. Mostly you notice photographs, in ranks, by which the fortunate assert they’re not alone. And everywhere little clutter…