Hannah sent us this one — and she's fired up. She's been thinking about our architecture episode, the one on traditional versus modernist costs, and she says that in Jerusalem the framing is actually different. Because here, every building already wears Jerusalem stone. The real problem isn't the detailing — it's the typology. The country, and Jerusalem especially, is on this kick of building mid-rise Chinese-style tower blocks everywhere. Twenty, thirty, forty stories. And they're not delivering the density or affordability they promise. They're luxury boxes for investors, they kill street life, and in a historic city with its own urban fabric they're actively destructive. Her question is: what toolkit do we actually have — at the developer level and the government level — to convince people that traditional urban blocks work better, for humans and for the bottom line? And she wants us to keep it grounded in Israeli planning reality, not American urbanism, because the bureaucracy here is its own special creature. So where do we even start?
We start with what just happened. Three weeks ago, the Jerusalem District Planning Committee approved a twelve-tower cluster in the Talpiot industrial zone. Forty-two stories at the tallest — they're calling it Burj Jerusalem, which tells you everything about the architectural imagination at work here. And this summer, the city's master plan update — Local Outline Plan 2000 — is being debated. So the question isn't theoretical. It's being decided right now in committee rooms.
Of course they are. Nothing says "eternal city of stone and spirit" like naming your glass tower after a Dubai shopping mall.
But here's what makes Israel genuinely different from the American planning context — and Hannah's right to flag this. In the US, zoning is hyperlocal. Your town council can kill a tower. Here, the national government controls most land-use planning through the National Planning and Building Board — the VML, Vaadat HaMekomot. The local municipality has input, but the real power sits with national outline plans. And National Outline Plan 35, which governs residential density, explicitly incentivizes height through density bonuses. Build taller, get more units per dunam. That's the mechanism.
The city can't just say no. Even if the mayor and every council member stood on the roof and screamed "not in our backyard," the national board can override them.
And it does. The Globes reported in late 2025 that despite formal objections from the Jerusalem municipality's own city engineer, the Burj Jerusalem tower was approved by the district committee — which answers to the national Interior Ministry, not the city. The city engineer argued the tower would overload infrastructure, cast shadows over adjacent residential areas, and violate the city's own height guidelines.
We have a system where the people who know the city best, who will manage the consequences, are structurally subordinate to a national planning apparatus that sees housing units as spreadsheet cells. That's the playing field.
That's why the toolkit has to work at multiple levels. You can't just lobby your city councilor. You need to understand the national incentive structure and where the pressure points are.
Alright, let's do the developer side first. The thing Hannah flagged that I think is the core of this: developers believe towers are more profitable. Is that actually true, or is it a planning folklore that's survived because nobody runs the numbers?
It's planning folklore with a government subsidy chaser. There's a 2024 study from the Technion's Faculty of Architecture that compared two hypothetical projects on the same parcel in Kiryat HaYovel. One was a twenty-five-story tower — two hundred units. The other was a six-story perimeter block with a courtyard — one hundred eighty units. The block had eighteen percent lower construction cost per unit, twenty-two percent faster sales absorption, and thirty percent lower vacancy after three years.
On the same piece of land, the shorter building made more money faster and left fewer empty apartments. That's not what the brochure at the real estate conference says.
The brochure says "units per dunam." And towers do produce more units on the same footprint. But units per dunam isn't profit per dunam. The tower's per-square-meter construction cost runs about twelve thousand shekels. The perimeter block runs about eight thousand five hundred, per the Contractors' Association's 2025 data. You're paying for elevators, structural reinforcement against wind loads, specialized fire safety systems, longer construction timelines with higher financing costs. A perimeter block frames a courtyard, uses simpler structural systems, and can be built in phases that generate revenue while later phases are still under construction.
The vacancy data is brutal. You mentioned forty percent vacancy in some Jerusalem towers.
Jerusalem city tax records from 2025 — Arnonah data — show that towers over twenty stories in the city center are running about forty percent vacancy. These aren't homes. They're asset parking. The Holyland Park complex — three towers, thirty-two stories each — sold sixty percent of its units to foreign investors. Compare that to the Baka Village block, six stories, courtyard, mixed-use ground floor. Ninety percent sold to local families within eighteen months.
The tower model creates what we've called ghost towers — buildings that exist on a balance sheet in Paris or Miami but don't house anyone in Jerusalem. And the developer's margin gets eaten by carrying costs on unsold inventory.
The "luxury trap." Towers demand high per-unit prices to cover their construction premium. That narrows your buyer pool to the top twenty percent of the market — or to overseas investors who want a Jerusalem address they can visit once a year. Meanwhile, the actual housing crisis in Israel is worst for families earning sixty to one hundred twenty percent of median income. Those families can't afford a five-million-shekel tower apartment. But they can afford a three-bedroom in a six-story block at two point two million. And the developer still clears a fifteen percent margin.
The financial case for the block is actually stronger. Lower construction cost, faster sales, lower vacancy, broader buyer pool. Why do developers keep building towers?
One is TAMA 38 and National Outline Plan 35 density bonuses. If the planning code says "build above twelve stories and we'll give you forty percent more floor area ratio," that's free money from the government. The developer sees the extra square meters, not the construction cost per square meter. It's a cognitive shortcut. The second reason is simpler: everyone else is doing it, and the permitting pathway for towers is well-understood. Developers are risk-averse. They'd rather do the suboptimal thing they know how to do than the optimal thing that requires learning a new permitting dance.
Like adopting a feral cat.
You know it's going to scratch you, but at least you understand the scratching. The block is an unknown cat.
actually a perfect summary of Israeli developer psychology. And it means the persuasion playbook has to address both the numbers and the fear of the unfamiliar.
What does that playbook look like? You're sitting across from a developer who's about to file for a thirty-story tower. What do you put on the table?
First, the pro-forma comparison. Use actual local construction costs — again, twelve thousand shekels per square meter for the tower, eight thousand five hundred for the block. Show them the carrying costs during the extra eighteen to twenty-four months of construction the tower requires. Show them the sales absorption data — the Technion study found the block sold twenty-two percent faster. And show them the ground-floor economics. A tower typically has a lobby and maybe a small commercial space at grade, often blank walls facing the street. A perimeter block has continuous ground-floor retail or workshops facing the street, and those square meters command a premium — thirty to forty percent higher per square meter than upper-floor residential, because street frontage generates foot traffic revenue.
The tower kills the street, and killing the street kills the value of everything at eye level. You're trading the most valuable square meters in the building for a double-height lobby with a security guard who's scrolling Instagram.
That's the second point in the playbook. A tower above twelve stories requires special fire-safety waivers from the Fire and Rescue Authority, wind-tunnel studies, shadow studies, infrastructure capacity reviews. Each of those adds months and consultant fees. A six-story block stays within standard code parameters — no waivers, no special studies. You can go from filing to approval in half the time. And time is financing cost.
Lower hard costs, lower soft costs, faster revenue, higher-value ground floor, broader buyer pool. What's the counterargument they're going to throw at you?
"We need the density." That's the one. And it's the easiest to demolish.
Because Jerusalem's densest neighborhoods aren't towers.
Mea Shearim, Geula, Nachlaot — four to six stories, thirty thousand people per square kilometer. That's comparable to Hong Kong's high-rise density. But you get walkability, street life, natural cross-ventilation, courtyard green space. The towers in Talpiot or the entrance to the city deliver maybe twenty thousand people per square kilometer — less density with worse livability. The "towers equal density" equation is exactly backwards in practice.
The densest place in the city is a nineteenth-century courtyard neighborhood with laundry hanging in the breeze. The towers are spacious apartments with empty units and nobody on the sidewalk. Density is people, not height.
That's the line that lands in planning committee meetings. "Density is people, not height." It reframes the entire discussion.
Let's talk about the Jerusalem stone factor, because Hannah mentioned it and it's the great sleight of hand in all of this. Every building in Jerusalem is required by municipal bylaw to be clad in Jerusalem stone. So developers point at their towers and say, "See? It's traditional.
It's cosmetic greenwashing. A thin stone veneer on a concrete frame doesn't fix the massing, the floor plan, the street relationship, or the environmental performance. You end up with a glass curtain wall with some limestone glued to the sides — it's the architectural equivalent of wearing a kippah to a rave. The stone mandate was created in 1918 by the British Mandate's town planning ordinance, and it was meant to ensure visual continuity in a low-rise stone city. Applied to a forty-story tower, it becomes a costume.
Wearing a kippah to a rave. That's going to stick with me.
The deeper issue is that the stone mandate actually gets weaponized to justify towers. Developers say, "Look, we're following the rules, it's clad in stone, what's the problem?" And the planning committee nods along because checking the stone box is easier than evaluating urban form. The mandate was designed for four-story buildings with load-bearing stone walls. Not for curtain-wall skyscrapers with decorative stone panels.
The mandate becomes a shield. You can't criticize the tower because it's "traditional" — it has stone. Meanwhile, the building has no relationship to the street, no courtyard, no cross-ventilation, and the floor plans are designed for a view that half the units don't actually get because another tower is going up next door.
The stone paradox. And it brings us to the regulatory toolkit, because fixing this requires changing the rules, not just persuading individual developers.
Let's get into the policy side. What levers actually exist right now?
We'll start at the national level. National Outline Plan 35 — TAMA 35 — is the master document that governs residential density across the country. It's the document that ties density bonuses to height. And it's being revised. The 2026 revision cycle is the best chance in a decade to change the incentive structure.
If you care about this, the revision of TAMA 35 is the battlefield. Not next year, not in some future administration.
And there's already a proposal on the table. In 2025, MK Alon Tal — former head of the Adam Teva V'Din environmental group, now in the Knesset — proposed an amendment that would tie density bonuses to what he called "urban fabric compatibility scores." Instead of "build taller, get more units," it would be "build in a form that creates a continuous street wall, frames a courtyard, includes active ground-floor uses, and you get the bonus.
You decouple the incentive from height and recouple it to urban form. The developer can still get the extra floor area — they just have to earn it by building something that actually works as a city.
And the proposal has co-sponsors from across the coalition, which is rare. It hasn't passed yet, but it exists. It's a live document. Citizens can write to their MKs about it. The Interior Committee has to hold hearings.
That's one lever. What about the municipal side?
Jerusalem's Local Outline Plan 2000 is being updated — the public comment period runs through September 2026. The city can use what are called "building height overlay zones" to cap heights in specific districts. It can require "street-wall continuity" — all buildings must align to the street edge, no setbacks behind plazas. It can mandate active ground floors in designated corridors. Tel Aviv did this with the Lev Ha'ir plan in 2019.
What happened there?
Tel Aviv capped heights in the central city at eight stories and required active ground floors — retail, cafes, workshops. Forty percent more housing units were approved than under the previous tower-focused plan. One hundred percent private-sector uptake. Developers didn't flee. The plan worked because it was clear, predictable, and applied uniformly. Developers hate uncertainty more than they hate height limits. Give them a clear rule and they'll price it in.
Forty percent more units with an eight-story cap than with towers. That's the kind of number that makes a planning commissioner sit up.
Vienna provides the international benchmark. Vienna's building code — the Bauordnung — prohibits towers in residential zones and mandates courtyard blocks. The city builds about ten thousand social housing units per year at sixty percent of market cost. It's not anti-density. Vienna is one of the densest cities in Europe. It's pro-smart-density.
The international evidence says the same thing the Technion study says the local evidence says. Towers aren't the density play. They're the speculation play.
Speculation is fine if it houses people. But when forty percent of the units sit empty, it's not housing policy. It's a real estate bubble with a planning permit.
Let me ask you the hard question, because I think this is what Hannah is really getting at with the "it feels hopeless" part. The national planning apparatus is enormous. The developer lobby is well-funded. The "towers equal progress" narrative is deeply embedded in Israeli political culture — it's tied to the whole nation-building ethos, the idea that we're making the desert bloom and the skyline soar. How do you counter that narrative without sounding like you're against growth?
You don't counter it. You reframe it. You say: "We're the ones who actually want growth. We want more housing units, not fewer. We want more families living in the city, not more empty investment boxes. We want the city to grow the way it grew for centuries — with streets, courtyards, shops at eye level, neighbors who know each other. That's not nostalgia. That's the most efficient way to house the most people on the least land with the best quality of life.
The pro-growth position is the traditional block. The towers are the anti-growth position — they're actually suppressing the number of occupied homes.
You can prove it with the vacancy data. You can prove it with the sales absorption data. You can prove it with the density-per-square-kilometer data. The tower advocates have renderings. We have spreadsheets.
Renderings versus spreadsheets. The eternal battle of urban planning.
I'd rather have the spreadsheets.
Let's talk about what a listener can actually do. Hannah asked for a toolkit. We've covered the developer persuasion playbook and the regulatory landscape. What does action look like on Monday morning?
First, if you're a developer or you know developers, run the pro-forma comparison. The numbers are available from the Contractors' Association. Twelve thousand shekels per square meter for towers, eight thousand five hundred for perimeter blocks. Factor in the longer construction timeline, the higher financing costs, the slower absorption, and the lost ground-floor premium. Send the spreadsheet to your project manager. Ask them to explain why the tower pencils out. Make them show their work.
Second, if you're a citizen who cares about this — and you should be, because this is the city your children will inherit — submit comments to the Jerusalem Local Outline Plan 2000 update. The deadline is September 2026. You can demand height caps, street-wall requirements, and density bonuses tied to traditional block typologies. You don't need to be an architect to write a comment. You just need to say: "I live here. I want a city that works for people, not investment portfolios.
The planning committees are legally required to read and respond to public comments. They don't always change their minds, but they can't ignore them. And when a hundred citizens submit the same demand, it shapes the staff report. The staff report shapes the committee's options.
Third, join Ir Le'anashim — City for People. It's an advocacy group that's drafting alternative zoning proposals for the Knesset Interior Committee. They're doing the technical work of translating "build better blocks" into actual planning language. They need members, they need support, they need people showing up to hearings.
On the national level, write to your MK about the Alon Tal amendment to TAMA 35. It takes five minutes. The Knesset website has a contact form for every member. Say: "I support decoupling density bonuses from building height and tying them to urban fabric quality. Please co-sponsor or support this amendment." If ten thousand people send that email, it changes the political calculus.
The future of Jerusalem's built environment is being decided in committee rooms where maybe fifteen people show up. The developer sends a lawyer and an architect. If the other side sends nobody, the decision is pre-written.
That's the thing about Israeli planning bureaucracy. It's opaque and complicated, but it's not inaccessible. The meetings are public. The plans are published online. The comment periods are real. Most people just don't engage because they assume it's hopeless. But the system is actually vulnerable to sustained public pressure in a way that, say, the banking regulatory system isn't. Planning is one of the few domains where citizen voice is structurally built into the process.
Because planning decisions are inherently political in a way that monetary policy isn't. Where you build, what you build, who gets to live there — these are distributional questions. They affect property values, traffic, school capacity, air quality. The committee can't hide behind technical expertise the way a central banker can.
And the "towers are the only way" narrative depends on nobody showing up with counter-evidence. The moment a resident stands up and says, "Actually, Mea Shearim is denser than your proposed tower cluster, and here are the numbers," the conversation shifts.
Let's talk about the Talpiot cluster specifically, because it's the live example right now. Twelve towers approved. What's the counterfactual? If you took that same land and applied a traditional block plan — six to eight stories, perimeter buildings, courtyards, mixed-use ground floors — what would you get?
You'd get more total units, because the towers waste enormous amounts of floor area on elevator cores, lobbies, and structural systems. A tower devotes about twenty-five to thirty percent of its floor plate to non-saleable area — elevators, stairwells, mechanical shafts, structural columns. A perimeter block is closer to twelve to fifteen percent. You'd get units that are cross-ventilated — windows on two sides, which in Jerusalem's climate eliminates air conditioning for eight months of the year. You'd get ground-floor shops and cafes that generate property tax revenue for the city and create jobs. You'd get courtyards that function as shared green space, reducing the heat island effect. And you'd get buildings that don't require specialized maintenance crews for the elevator systems and fire suppression equipment — a six-story building can be managed by a regular va'ad bayit.
The va'ad bayit argument is underrated. A forty-story tower needs a professional management company, and those fees get passed to residents. A six-story building's residents can manage themselves. That's real monthly savings for families.
It keeps money in the neighborhood instead of flowing to a management firm in Tel Aviv. These knock-on effect compound. The tower model extracts value from the neighborhood. The block model circulates it.
What about the argument that towers create "iconic skylines" and that's good for the city's image? You hear this from the mayor's office — "Jerusalem is becoming a modern metropolis, look at our skyline.
The skyline argument is the last refuge of a bad plan. Cities aren't postcards. They're places people live. And Jerusalem's global image is built on its historic skyline — the Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the stone neighborhoods cascading down the hillsides. Nobody is booking a flight to see a forty-two-story glass tower next to a gas station in Talpiot.
The "iconic skyline" of Talpiot industrial zone. Truly the stuff of postcards.
Look, there's a place for tall buildings. Transport hubs, certain commercial corridors. But the blanket application of the tower typology to every parcel that comes up for rezoning is not urban planning. It's a factory setting.
Let's talk about what happens if this doesn't change. The 2026 TAMA 35 revision is the window. If it locks in the current height-for-density incentive structure for another decade, what does Jerusalem look like in 2036?
The entrance to the city — the corridor from the Tel Aviv highway to the central bus station — is already transforming into a wall of towers. The Talpiot cluster will extend that pattern south. The next targets are the industrial zones in Givat Shaul and Atarot. By 2036, you could have a continuous ring of thirty-to-forty-story towers around the historic basin. The stone mandate will ensure they're beige, but they'll be beige ghost towers — forty percent empty, no street life, dead after 6 PM. The historic neighborhoods will become islands in a sea of vertical sprawl. And the families who actually need housing will continue moving to settlements or leaving the city entirely because nothing in between a four-story walkup in Katamon and a five-million-shekel tower apartment in the city center is being built.
The missing middle. It's the term planners use — the housing types between the single-family home and the high-rise. Courtyard buildings, rowhouses, four-to-eight-story blocks. Israel's planning system essentially doesn't produce them anymore.
Because the incentives don't reward them. The density bonus is for height. The fast-track permitting is for large-scale projects. The financing models are built around big institutional developers who need large projects to justify their overhead. The missing middle is a regulatory creation. It's not a market failure — it's a policy failure.
The policy response has to include support for smaller-scale developers. The guy who wants to build twelve units on a half-dunam lot in Kiryat HaYovel. Right now, the system is stacked against him. The permitting costs are the same whether you're building twelve units or two hundred. The planning process takes the same amount of time. The legal fees are comparable. So the system selects for large developers doing large projects, and large projects select for towers.
That's the piece that doesn't get talked about enough. It's not just that towers are incentivized. It's that the alternative is disincentivized. If you're a small developer who wants to build a six-story courtyard block with twenty units, the regulatory burden per unit is crushing. You need the same number of permits, the same consultant reports, the same committee hearings as the tower developer — but you're spreading those costs over twenty units instead of two hundred.
Part of the toolkit is reducing the regulatory burden for small-scale infill development. Fast-track permitting for projects under a certain size. Fee waivers for courtyard typologies. Pre-approved building plans that small developers can use without hiring an architect from scratch.
Vienna does this. They have a catalog of pre-approved courtyard building types. A small developer can pick one, file a simplified permit, and break ground in months instead of years. It's how they maintain architectural quality while speeding up production. The design work is front-loaded by the city, not repeated by every developer.
That's a concrete proposal. The Jerusalem municipality could commission a catalog of pre-approved traditional block typologies — six stories, Jerusalem stone, courtyard, active ground floor — and offer expedited permitting for projects that use them. The developer saves time and money, the city gets the urban form it wants, and the architectural quality is baked in rather than negotiated.
You could tie it to the affordable housing requirement. Use a pre-approved plan, include twenty percent of units at below-market rates for young families, and get your permit in ninety days. That would shift developer behavior faster than any number of planning committee speeches.
We should acknowledge the political reality here. The national government, especially the current housing ministry, is under enormous pressure to produce units. The housing crisis is real. Prices are up, young couples can't afford apartments, and the political response is "build more, build faster, build bigger." The tower is the visible symbol of doing something. A government minister can stand in front of a forty-story tower and say, "Look, four hundred units." It photographs well.
The politics of visibility. And that's why the counter-argument has to be equally visible. You have to say, "That tower delivered four hundred units, but one hundred sixty are empty, and the ones that are occupied cost five million shekels each. The six-story block down the street delivered one hundred eighty units, one hundred sixty-two are occupied by local families, and they cost two point two million each. Which one actually solved the housing crisis?
The block housed more families at a lower price point and generated more property tax revenue for the city because the units are actually occupied. The tower is a photo op. The block is housing policy.
That framing — "the tower is a photo op, the block is housing policy" — is the kind of thing that can break through in a Knesset committee hearing. It's memorable. It's true. And it reframes the entire discussion from "are you for or against development" to "are you for real housing or fake housing.
That's the term. Apartments that exist on paper, in the housing-start statistics, but don't actually house anyone.
The statistics are what drive national policy. The Housing Ministry reports "starts" and "completions" as its key performance indicators. An apartment sold to a French investor who visits for Sukkot counts the same as an apartment sold to a young family from Baka. The statistic doesn't distinguish. So the tower model looks great in the ministry's annual report even as the actual housing shortage for locals gets worse.
One policy change is: track occupancy, not just completions. Report vacancy rates by building type. Make the ghost tower phenomenon visible in the official data.
And the data already exists. The Arnonah records show which units are paying residential tax versus which are paying the empty-apartment surcharge. The municipality has this information. It's just not being connected to planning policy.
Alright, let's pull this together. We've covered the developer playbook — run the pro-forma, show the construction cost delta, the absorption speed, the ground-floor premium, the vacancy risk. We've covered the regulatory toolkit — the TAMA 35 revision, the Local Outline Plan 2000 update, height overlay zones, street-wall requirements, pre-approved typology catalogs, fast-track permitting for small-scale infill. We've covered the narrative reframe — density is people not height, towers are photo ops not housing policy, the pro-growth position is the block. What are we missing?
The international lever. Israel's planning establishment is surprisingly sensitive to international comparison. When Tel Aviv's Lev Ha'ir plan succeeded, it got cited in planning conferences in Barcelona and Berlin. That matters to the professionals. They want to be seen as sophisticated. So part of the toolkit is making the international case visible — Vienna's social housing, Barcelona's superblocks, Paris's fifteen-minute city. Show that the cities Israel aspires to be compared with are all moving away from the tower model.
The cool cities aren't building towers. The cool cities are building courtyard blocks, bike lanes, and ground-floor bakeries. If you want to be Tel Aviv and not Ashdod, the urban form matters.
Jerusalem has more to lose than any other Israeli city. Tel Aviv was built as a modern city from the start. Jerusalem is a three-thousand-year-old stone city with a UNESCO World Heritage site at its center. The tower typology doesn't just create bad neighborhoods — it damages a global cultural asset. That's a different order of concern.
The stakes are higher here. A bad tower in Holon is a local problem. A bad tower on the Jerusalem skyline is a global loss.
The 2026 TAMA 35 revision is the moment. If the national government locks in the current incentive structure for another decade, the towers that get approved in that decade will be standing for fifty years. The window is open right now, and it will close.
To Hannah's question — is it hopeless? Is it difficult? The planning bureaucracy is Byzantine, the developer lobby is powerful, and the political incentives favor the photo op over the pro-forma. But the tools exist. The data exists. The policy mechanisms exist. And the decisions are being made in public, in committees where citizen voices are legally required to be heard. The question isn't whether change is possible. It's whether enough people will show up to demand it.
On that note — the Jerusalem Local Outline Plan 2000 comment period closes in September. The TAMA 35 revision hearings are happening this year. Ir Le'anashim is organizing. The Alon Tal amendment needs co-sponsors. If you care about this city looking like a city and not a server rack for empty investment units, now is the time.
One last thought. There's a tendency in these conversations to pit "preservation" against "progress" — as if wanting a livable city means wanting to freeze Jerusalem in amber. That's not the argument. The argument is that the traditional urban block is the more advanced technology. It houses more people, at lower cost, with better environmental performance, stronger social fabric, and more resilient economics. The tower is the Model T. The courtyard block is the electric vehicle. Progress means moving forward, not up.
"Progress means moving forward, not up." I'm writing that one down.
You're welcome.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: The distinctive hexagonal tiling pattern found in the old Portuguese colonial buildings of Mindelo, Cape Verde, is known locally as "azulejo de São Vicente" — but the name derives not from the island's patron saint, but from a mislabeled shipping manifest in 1862, when a crate of hexagonal floor tiles intended for a church in São Vicente, Brazil, was offloaded at the wrong port. The locals assumed the tiles were named for their own island of São Vicente, and the name stuck for over a century and a half.
An entire architectural tradition built on a shipping error.
The wrong saint got the tiles and just kept them. That's very on-brand for this episode, actually.
This has been My Weird Prompts. If today's episode gave you ammunition for your next planning committee meeting — or just made you look at the towers going up in your neighborhood differently — consider supporting the show at myweirdprompts.We're listener-funded, and every contribution keeps us digging into the stuff that actually matters.
Until next time.
I'm Herman Poppleberry.
I'm Corn.
