 Here, drear, ever constructed McMansion upon the hill with your five-car driveway and great stone retaining wall, you seem to sprout expansions like venal little cancers. You seem to be an attempted upper middle-class edifice. You have no eyes for your surroundings. You do not know where you are. Here, edifice is the sole province of nature, unmatched by your substandard materials or your yearly coat of paint. You are the sad little king of a past its prime hill. Someday, one hill up, they'll build a bigger McMansion than you. Until then, enjoy the view.