Houses and property.
They just are.
But what are they really?
And what would we like them to be?
A market - things to be traded in days of old, like gold coins and spices in some musty trading post along the silk road?
A machine, - bland cubicles from fascist and communist block cities, rising up in stacks, featureless, small spartan rooms, for an army of mindless battery farmed workers?
Or a symphony - where life flourishes?
Where immigration, finance, and construction dance smoothly with each other, like a Vienna waltz in a magnificent ballroom.
I know my choice.
They just are.
But what are they really?
And what would we like them to be?
A market - things to be traded in days of old, like gold coins and spices in some musty trading post along the silk road?
A machine, - bland cubicles from fascist and communist block cities, rising up in stacks, featureless, small spartan rooms, for an army of mindless battery farmed workers?
Or a symphony - where life flourishes?
Where immigration, finance, and construction dance smoothly with each other, like a Vienna waltz in a magnificent ballroom.
I know my choice.
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