(What are the qualities of the perfect lot? In what state of decay is the asphalt of the perfect lot? to what height have the weeds in the cracks of the asphalt of the perfect lot grown? What is the ratio of the brightness or dimness of the lines of the perfect lot to the height of the grasses and weeds in its cracks? of the height of the weeds to the length of the cracks? What is its shape? Do any of its spaces allow for parking on the diagonal? Does a dumpster occupy a portion of the perfect lot? What, again, is its shape? What sort of property does it serve, a church, a commercial enterprise? Of what sort, a preschool, a mall, a restaurant? If there were a lot, in the middle of a grassy plain, or in a thick wilderness, unreachable even to all-terrain vehicles, how would that compare with the perfect lot you have in mind? If there were a lot the size of a football field, composed of just one parking space, yet intended for an ordinarily sized car, how would that compare to your ideal of the perfect lot?)
(Thus speaks the Gentleman of The Imagination: who makes of my spine a walking stick, and of my skull a top hat, and for whom my two legs are the two falling tails or spits of his elegant evening dress. Thus speaks the Gentleman of The Imagination as I approach that lot I did think once to be most perfect — but which now they’ve made so much nicer than that — and which on top of that, is entirely full of automobiles most the time, which is another gross imperfection.)
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 