In the tree there is a house. The house is in the tree as a sculpture is in a block of stone: something in potentia, visible only to artists, or, in this case, architects. It is a fine tree, majestic and tall, and it carries other potential within itself as well: a tree stump, which would of necessity co-exist with the house. Also something else, which has no name, and is perhaps not potentiality but a representation of the true reality: something round and hard like a pearl, or an unchanging moon, or a seed - an ouroboros in three dimensions.
In the house there is a tree. It is painted on the wall, trompe l'oeil, behind trompe l'oeil curtains. The house, too, has its own potential: one day when it is more than ruined, buried in a desolate land, there will grow up above it a fine tree, tall and majestic, roots twisting through empty rooms. Thus each thing carries within itself the seed of its destruction, and that destruction is the heart of the thing that is: it would not be a tree if it could not become a house; the house must contain the concept of a tree.