Ring Fort, Dawson Streeet, Dublin

It was the shoes that stopped me. Worn leather slip-ons deposited on the doorstep of a house.

Except in this case the house was cardboard, a large box that had been partly broken and arranged into flooring and panels, a knee-high, half-perimeter wall that, with the plate-glass shop-window on the inside, neatly enclosed a sleeping space off the footpath. The shop was closed, a business premises to let.

So a doorstep within a doorstep, a building cradling itself within a building's broad stone porch. Architectures. Archaeologies. Real estate. A space taken, and held in trust. A booked room with certain amenities.

Nobody home. No belongings aside from what looked like a black pullover, a plastic bag and and a pillow. Intimacies. If we were playing house instead of intruding, we might add a few books, an alarm clock.

I had noticed the other shoes, or pictures of shoes, a green, decorative frieze in the lower part of the shop-window, illustrating chunky, high-heeled fashion numbers, presumably for sale when the shop was in business. Now they were wallpaper for somebody's bedroom, a compliment to the shoes outside the wall.

It was only later, when I processed the image, that I noticed other things, such as the red sticker on one of the cardboard panels: Documents Enclosed.