the true new year's eve is on september 1st when people return from summer holiday. at that time, urban needs and problems overflow onto a bunch of flabby individuals, still dragging imaginary bags filled with children’s beach toys, flip-flops, plastic beers, or simply themselves.
upon this mob, wealthy enough to own cars and take vacations, the inevitable has descended in a september day. the city, choked by parked cars, more numerous now after the month of august, has almost come to a standstill.
no longer cleave through the air at speed, as their makers envisioned; instead, they remain stationary, pressing against the asphalt. they sit on sidewalks, next to houses, poles and utility boxes, following the contours of curbs in disorderly fashion. when a car reluctantly breaks free from the inertia of parking and moves elsewhere, its speed is so slow that air particles easily sidestep without the slightest trace of resistance. the aerodynamic aspirations of the automobile become ridiculous.
motionless, the cars resemble small buildings, scattered by an invisible hand throughout the city. they create enclosures, corridors, gates, crossings, deadends, niches.
it doesn't take long before this (somewhat harmless) tragedy is disrupted by a fierce parking tax. under the pressure of this tax and its calculation methods, car owners rush into the streets to implement the only way to keep their cars—incorporating elements useful to the general public. and so began a fury of design and precariousness.