I can see the clouds, parrying hyperactive across twilight greyed chimneys like impatient critics in search of an impossibly perfect structure, organic cynichs on a mission to corrode with rainy acidic ingredients the ultimate suburban whitewash and reveal the fundamental ugliness beneath all the surface appeal of man’s most basic creation: the home. Their speed in leaving, doubled from that of their entering, signified the urgent continuation of their quest .

This place is far as the horizon from their perhaps unreachable destination.

     Something in these houses transmits an almost breathetaking drabness. Its as though the visionary of their design, some rare genius spent from a midlife’s pursuit of unpatronized artistic ideals, gave in to a final resignation and conformed to that most dreaded foster father of ingenuity: tradition. From the bowells of his soul, regurgitated and left to steam in the windless morning of mental stagnance, a typical explosion occured, soundless and unbeknownst to its victims yet echoing forever in the mind of the detonator. As the fecal dust of the ironclad building slaves subsided, another microcosm of satisfactory futures stood upright and barely adequate for habitation. 293 2 and 3 bedroom homes, all eaten up as though from a surplus in the fat of the land, all purchased and consumed as their forebearer grew skinny by degrees, never forgiving himself for giving the people exactly what they wanted: Addenflor Commons.

     An optimistic tourist on an accidental detour (an unwilling detourist?) might make this assumption about a place so fiercely mild as Addenflor Common: “the houses might be unimpressive, but im sure the surrounding scenery flourishes in comparison.” To that tourist, an almost lethal innoculation of improbable logic will soon be dealt , however, when he finds abound in Addenflor an ecosystem so vastly dulled by its manmade counterpart. Addenflor’s tree’s, all fresh buds of Dogwood, Oak, and Pine transplanted into a promising bosom of red fertile clay, underwent a jaded childhood and retreated, whinnying and prideless into a state of accelerated decrepitude. Hunched over and contorted into helpless growths, commisioned by nature as mannequins to advertise the wrong product, the prematurly jeriatric arborlife of Addenflor enhanced the sorry mediocrity of it’s homes, one rebounding the whimpering globe of attention to the other for all of the place’s long hours.