You take a piece of bare, sterile land, and you roll some big hollow stones on to it. Inside those stones, smells are held captive, smells which are heavier than air. Now and then you throw them out of the window into the streets and they stay there until the winds tear them apart. In bright weather, noises come in at one end of the town and go out at the other, after going through all the walls; at other times, they go round and round between these stones which are baked by the sun and split by the frost.
– Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea.