I know you've supported me for a long time; somehow, I'm not impressed

I have a strange affinity for windmills. Not the old-fashioned, characteristically Dutch type with the grinder in the cabin, though those are nice. Rather, I’m absolutely obsessed with the sleek, power-generating type that crop up in unexpected places. This, in fact, has a lot to do with why I love these generators: their unexpectedness. They appear sporadically on a flat plain in Illinois, in the foothills of Spain, in mountains of California. And the fact that their layout never seems to have a plan—there are no rows and columns of windmills, they face different directions, their propellers never spin quite in sync—seems to indicate that they’re these natural outcroppings of sleek, beautiful trees, incomprehensibly tall, honed by evolution, taking root wherever the soil can support them. But regardless of their erraticism and the sleek naturalness of their form, they are manmade. And this is the Objectivist in me speaking, but every time I see a field of them emerging from the horizon, I want to put my hand on its base and feel the power churning through it, knowing that someone constructed, designed, planned this machine, a part of the landscape but nevertheless asserting its dominance over it, at the mercy of the wind but harnessing it.

I swear, someone should burn my copy of The Fountainhead, because this is just ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as my love for that damn Masterson building.