Just as seas of data cannot slake the thirst for one cup of knowledge, the purloined surfaces of a thousand street front tableaux do not satisfy the thirst for one poetic still life.
This is the anti-Cartier-Bresson. Instead of a decisive moment framing the proof of a human soul, you have a procrastinating, dissembling eternity of facades teasing you down a proleptic ribbon of indication without the possibility of real change, real encounter, real trust or real betrayal.
As such, it is a half-baked foil to one's fantasy, of course, as is all the mediocre pornography. Google wants to be in the porn business, but is too close to its dorm origins to step up to the true art without the undergraduate's sense of shame. Give it time, and it will figure out how to airbrush and avatar its simulacra cities in more stimulating poses. It will figure out how to tint the darkened windows with venal silhouttes, suggest a bared shoulder in the fenced yard alludes to greater baring, put lipstick on the lackluster urban factual pig and sell kisses by the click.
