The inhabitants of the big city live in a box of stacked beds, skyscrapers with no cellar at all, from street to roof. One room is densely stacked on top of another, a curtain formed from the broken skyline that surrounds the entire city. But the height of the city's buildings is purely an external height only, the lift abolishing the heroic aura of climbing stairs.

Since then, there is no longer any sense of living upwards closer to the sky; home has become a purely horizontal range. Different rooms are combined into different living functions and crammed into a single floor, and there is absolutely no basic principle to follow in terms of differentiating and classifying privacy values. In addition to the lack of depth of privacy values, houses in big cities also lack a sense of the vast universe. 

Because here, the house is no longer built in its natural environment, the relationship between space and the home becomes an artificial one. Everything to do with the house becomes mechanical. Thus the private life of living escapes from every corner, and the streets are like conduits into which people are sucked.

When it thunders, the house no longer trembles, our homes are close together, we are no longer afraid, and the sense of personal intrusion caused by the storm to its dreamer is absolutely different from that felt by the dreamer in the house of the recluse.