Really love my mansion but starting to feel like it doesn't have enough asphalt.

Putting my house on the market and demanding more extreme low-angle shots to really demonstrate just how much asphalt there is.

MORE ASPHALT

Tucking in my beautiful children, who sleep in the kitchen.

So many beautiful nights on the balcony, gazing out at my asphalt.

Simply marvelous.

Wonderful!

Please, sir, my downspouts . . .

Curling up with a good book beside the chest-high faux fireplace in my master bath.

Honey, I'll be doing nude pull-ups on plumbers pipe construct in the 2/3-height completely exposed shower in the corner of the laundry room for some reason if you need me! Hope those flanges are well-anchored to the ceiling studs!

I have often said that a diversity of mulch makes a garden sing.

Has the word "shrub" ever seemed more onomatopoeic.

I said *several* types of pavers, and I meant every word.

Jefferson's Monticello. Wright's Fallingwater. This.

This actual, authentic Courtyard Marriott business center "seating area" was painstakingly deconstructed and shipped in pieces from an Indianapolis airport ring road. True old world charm.

Specifically asked my architect to create the sense of uncanny foreboding one gets in the opening chapters of a JG Ballard novel.

H.P. Lovecraft meets M.C. Escher.

COMPUTER, ENHANCE!

My Further Adventures in Harmonious Lines, Curves, Angles, and Volumes

Not now, dear, I'm on the phone.

The madwoman in the attic, but it is a riding mower in a lonely Mower Garage, because the house is ENTIRELY SURROUNDED BY ASPHALT.

Home. Milk. Eggs. Hasty cut-out vent over door because the spec builder fucked up the HVAC load calculations (the spec builder did not do HVAC load calculations). Fin.