Sometimes the outer looks as desolate as the inner feels.
Construction awaits and we await construction. Lots of pauses, lots of steps, along the way, to there from here, it’s like every day is a new day although how new compared to a year ago?
Surprised at the interim, don’t be, something different tomorrow or the tomorrow after that. I posted about this lot here, after the knock-down but before the rubble was cleared. Now the chunky dirt just awaits trucks bringing young crews and new girders. One imagines pigeons tarrying here when it was last clear of buildings – just as they scavenged the buildings when they appeared – although it is hard to imagine pigeons anywhere before western civilization, so well have they adapted to concrete and steel. Easy to imagine them being here after though, when we human beings finally let the whole shithouse go up in flames, man. Building, no building, rubble or dirt, they’re oblivious; they’ve been adapting to our constant change for so long their way is the constant now, they are what is and what remains and maybe our changes, our fields to warehouses to lots to condos moods, is really the adaptation.