Why is space such a compelling term for the container of an idea, or for resting a constellation of bulky and misshapen conceptions of form(s), or for unabashedly spraying the private eccentricities of interpretations within a room only to have its walls be rather shaped like an entire human shape or even like a home, or for even quite carefully, premeditatedly, and reasonably pressing on the analogy between thoughts and physical objects, or for understanding the way an interval splices duration with distance, or even further for how within the drunk coupling of remote access and intimacy an aversion so tangible yet so gaseous emerges at shivery longing, or for property, or for the architecture of the self-market?