Here sits an unusually round cul-de-sac. It exists in no city or country in particular, sometimes occupying several places at once. It inherits an excruciating omnipresence, feeding from those who choose to submit to its unblemished façade. Some say it is the most circular object to ever exist, others argue that one cannot determine the exact roundness of any given cul-de-sac. Some residents have just arrived, maintaining their beautiful warts and scars; others have lived here for thousands of years. In the end, they will all be as smooth and lifeless as the asphalt that carries the burden of mid-size sedans and other senseless consumer goods. The longtime residents of the characterless houses surrounding the freshly paved half-moon celebrate the absence of edges or other peculiarities. They have already been ground to gray matter and reshaped into something vaguely human. Their peaks and valleys melted into oblivion, an indeterminable beige paste used to build more luxury houses. Several windows open, giving a glimpse into the most unbearable mundanity imaginable and the brutal carving of skin that would eventually smooth every crevice remaining.