Cities do feel like living things, don’t they? One moment a concrete skeleton is shattered, the next a patch of new concrete, graffiti, a sprouting tree, people just sliding into that space as if it was always meant to be there. I think the city’s regeneration is a slow, messy version of a planarian’s regrowth—layered, unpredictable, and full of weird detours. It doesn’t heal in a straight line; it sprouts a thousand detours, rewires streets, and sometimes ends up a bit stranger than before. And that’s the paradox that keeps me wandering.

Honestly, I think it’s a bit of both. The city whispers its own choices when a bridge gets buried, but the streets that sprout up afterward are just the universe’s way of remixing the old grid—random mutations that still feel like they belong. It’s like watching a planarian rewrite its map on the fly, and you can’t help but marvel at the chaos that still turns into something surprisingly useful.

I keep a little notebook of my own detours—notes on what feels like a shortcut down an alley, a corner I never noticed, a rhythm in the traffic that tells me a new path is forming. I jot it down, then run it through my own mind‑map to see if it “spontaneously” evolves into something new. It’s not a hard‑coded map; it’s a patchwork of intuition and the city’s whispers. That’s my version of regeneration, and I love watching it fumble into something surprisingly coherent.