A room of not more than eighteen square metres, a bed by the door, two tables opposite, a computer on each of them. One of them is mine; the other belongs to my girlfriend. I’m sitting down, looking at the monitor on which the back-lit photograph of my mother’s lathe is emerging. A year and a half ago I selected it as the background for my monitor. I don’t always see it in its entirety, usually it’s obscured by the windows of open programs, but even so it’s still there.