when i see the road surveyors on stony island boulevard my heart goes wobbly and faint. each day seems another fateful step toward obombaland, and i see a congested future ready to burst in the fundation's engineered millenium south empirical-industrial conventional central consent. 
this built space will be like an enlarged manufactured heart, with clogged arteries, temporal stints, and towering illuminated pacemakers. there will be a sea of money for the rising influential, and no quiet, no sanctuary, in obombaland.