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Seeing vast open plains devoid of hierarchical management, we promptly lay a rigid grid of streets, for efficient movement of cars (and thought processes).

But slowly, the polished chrome facing of an ideal erodes, leaving a ragged routine in its place.

But despite the insistence that this is a failure, life finds a way back into our abandoned cities and souls.

Trees grow through the cracks in the concrete roadblocks (poured in our minds)

Sunbeams shine through the soot-blackened windowpanes (mounted in our eyes)

Men have nightmares in a dying world. Of things that were, and of things that could have been.

Children have dreams in a dead world. Of things that weren't, and of things that could be.

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