Nothing is ever torn down here. Nothing. As far as I can tell everything repurposed until the next thing fits. Any given building might have been born into its plot, a restaurant, a discount store. Today, a check cashing place. Next week, a whole slew of Bodegas that offer packaged liquor sales. Urban fetishistic person never appreciates the solitary building evolving into something else. They simply see the sprawl between their blessed Old Towns. Ignoring the evolutionary change taking place within the din of their own peripheral.
Watch the ones on foot see the change, regard it lightly making a mental note, maybe.
The driver never sees the change. The lines of the building exactly the same, year after, week after, day after. Always parallel in the other direction fifty miles an hour.
Whose memory will prevail to tell the tale of this place? How can we make the place something that everyone will see and build memories of? To see and recall fondly, to dismiss with a sliver of memory about that one time. Memory palaces surrounded by stucco amnesia.