A wallpaper tattoo gaily unrolled and cloyed the flat dust with architectural mock-ups and landscaping masquerades. Cars replaced tobacco. But sound-surround, wishy-washy backdrop hills still slip-slide elusively and perturb the design at its fringes. With each fade and shred, a bandage snipped from the gift-paper reserves rushes in and pastes over the damaged skin. History is successfully repealed in maximum 25-year intervals––now that's recycling. And to think that only a fragment of it could fit within the camera's eye... "If the high-tech boom ever ends and this place gets run-down, the ruins won't be very pretty."