One house on the mountain's lower slopes, and a page written in the future tense because I have not been.
Written as a plan. Nothing above has happened yet.
This page carries one entry and no experience behind it. I have not walked this city, so I will not tell you how the light falls off the mountain in the afternoon or how long the rooms take — that is precisely the sort of thing one borrows from other people's books and repeats as one's own.
What I can tell you is why the entry is kept. It is a painter's own house, with her own collection still in it, which is the arrangement this directory exists to record. A reader wrote in about it and would not be put off, and readers who will not be put off are usually right.
March is the plan, on that reader's advice, and the day left deliberately loose either side of the house. Until then this is an intention with a plate number, and it is marked hollow for a reason.