There's a building being destroyed across the street. From where I stand, I can see the dust rising, catching the wind, and floating west. I can see the mechanical claws of the excavator ripping apart the roof, sheet by sheet. I can hear the scraping of the claw and a rummaging of concrete, scrap metal, and wood as an impersonal beast creeps forward. Every so often, when the traffic is calm, I can hear the indistinct clamoring of indistinct workers in T-shirts and blue jeans.
The building buckles, cracks, and wails as the claw rips into its side. A wall turns to rubble as steel pipes are ripped out of the second floor. The building sits still, stoically. What's the building thinking of? What's a building supposed to be thinking of, as its face it torn from its body? In the last moments of its death, what would flash before an abandoned hotel's eyes?
The first answer is that it cannot see,…