The grey sky, heavy with cloud, the promise of a cold rain sits brooding beyond the window pane. The darker grey of the building opposite, the curved wall of steel and glass an imposing presence, heavy on the landscape, curving space and time, drawing people with its gravitas. We build, with little regard for the impact of our industriousness, seemingly inured to our effect on the fabric of this World. The shape, the tone of our edifices at odds with the tranquility that nature lends to our state of being.
The materials we use, ripped bleeding from the womb of the great mother by countless machines, converted, corrupted, consumed in the drive towards homogenous greyness, the lyrical excuses of architects, designers hollow in the sight of the monstrous carbuncles that represent the false pinnacle of our progress towards our inevitable demise. Will our childrens children understand that which we can not see? That our lives are structured, confined, bound by the landscape we build, just as the view is constrained by the frame of the window?