At night, I hear cars passing over the flyover. I wonder where people are going so late. I ask myself if my interest in container technologies is a compensation for my own relative deficiency in the container department. Upon waking, I salute the flyover along with the rising sun. It never rests. Its automated systems ensure a 24-hour facilitating environment to meet the demands of our metropolis: escorting hasty men to and from the other side, each striving to surmount that which is unsound in them. Similar to mothers, who nurture and provide for their infants. I can tell the structure is worn down. Rust and other imperfections have quietly settled onto its membrane. Perhaps, being porous enables intimacy with its surroundings. Can its embrace help me better understand my sexuality? More broadly, does perceiving architecture as an extension of our skin challenge views of gender roles?

References