I went to the slaughter house when I was twelve or thirteen years old. I don’t remember much of it: a cow was killed with a bolt gun in her head. Then she was tipped out on the low floor, about one meter down. There were carcasses in the background. It appeared to me that the open corridor below us was dreadful: there was no escape, just one way to go. And we were standing above. During about several weeks, I thought about the meaning of this corridor which always leads to death.