Whoever arrives in Tecla sees little of the city, hidden behind wooden fences, sackcloth screens, scaffolding, metal frameworks, wooden bridges suspended by ropes or supported by trestles, ladders, and trellises. When asked, "Why is the construction of Tecla taking so long?" the inhabitants, never stopping as they lift buckets, lower plumb lines, and move long paintbrushes up and down, reply,  "So that destruction does not begin."

When questioned further about whether they fear the city will start to crumble and fall apart once the scaffolding is removed, they hurriedly whisper, "Not only the city."

If, unsatisfied by these answers, someone peers through a gap in the fence, they see cranes lifting other cranes, frameworks enclosing other frameworks, beams supporting other beams. "What's the point of your building?" they ask. "What's the purpose of a city under construction if not to become a city? Where's the plan you're following, your design?"

"We'll show you when the day is over; now we cannot stop," they answer.

Work ceases at sunset. Night descends on the building site. It is a starry night. "Here is the design," they say.