The Black House reconstitutes itself perpetually, never fully succumbing to chaos, never fully succumbing to order. It manifests a desire for something, but what? And at what cost, per chance that desire be met? Black House is always supposedly “rising,” about to seize power, and yet year after year, decade after decade, it sits there, reconstituting itself, perpetuating its own architecture. If only Black House would shift beyond the banality of its form and express itself, even if that expression wiped out the mechanisms of that expression. Those who hope for and actively labor in secret to bring about the rise of Black House are, inevitably, as disappointed as those who work for its demise.