Everything’s metallic. There are just surfaces. Just metal cladding. So cold. And great glass windows. Criss-crossed with metal. And vast foyers.
And places for plants to grow. Metallic looking grasses. Sharp, like spears.
And then there’s the stony waste, where nothing can grow.
Everything on this campus is meant to have a particular effect. It’s all been carefully tested, trialled. They know what they’re doing.
Placation architecture. Controlling-us architecture. Steering us architecture. They’re working on us like they’re working on everyone.
We’re supposed to feel utterly passive. Small. Diminished. We’re supposed to feel the futility of being human. Of being the last humans alive.
Work in Progress 