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For the past two days, a huge work-crew has been ripping up row after row of still-blooming pink flowers from the careful gardens in front of the new building into which my office just moved. Railed trucks laden to the top with flowers still clumped with rich potting soil have driven off towards, I guess, some sort of flower-based landfill on which, to compensate for building toddler playgrounds on top of industrial waste, we will no doubt construct an elevated uranium diffuser or a plant that converts wheat berries into asbestos via cyanide leaching.  

This morning, the same crew is emptying trucks filled with new, already-blooming and subtly redder potted plants, cracking the plastic pots off by whacking them with trowels, and patiently digging the plants into mounds of new potting soil along the strips of just-evacuated dirt. The trucks lumber away again with stacks of broken plastic, huge engines grumbling, and the crew revs up overcharged gas leaf-blowers to blast the clods of dirt off the wide, empty sidewalks. By tomorrow the grounds will have been restored, refreshed, to their normal lessee-attracting state of methodical cheer, for at least as long as abject terror keeps the flowers on the new plants.  

This is corporate America's idea of "gardening".
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