As my right fist slammed into the building's load-bearing column, my left fist followed right behind it, accompanied by a smirk spreading across my face. I was absolutely certain my years of experience hadn't misled me, unfortunately.
I had guessed that these buildings, lined up next to each other like matchboxes, were the product of a cheap contractor, and after landing a few punches, I had zero doubts left in my mind. I was transported back to the days when people were hypnotized by the prospect of trading their single-story houses—which at least had a small garden in the front—for a few cramped apartment units.
I was back in the years when streets and neighborhoods slowly transformed into piles of concrete, when the color green was rapidly erased and replaced by a descending gray fog. I was throwing my punches in an era where almost every building was a carbon copy of the next, hypnotizing people with the mediocre facilities they offered.
