Coming in feels almost like going out - an audible breeze threatening to swell into a blizzard, waves breaking and withdrawing, the open air tuned to so many sounds that your own are absorbed in the rise and fall of murmurs, shouts, susurrations, plosives, stutters and echoes - and above them all, like Prospero, the voice of the artist humming to himself as if thinking (or not thinking) aloud.