Not a windmill after all?

Dad was certainly a visionary, and I have inherited that particular gene, or curse, or blessing, depending on your perspective. At times it’s all three. It’s a wonderful thing because visionaries can see a beauty that isn’t yet, and be driven by that beauty, and try to make it real. It’s a horrible thing because there can be few or no others who can see anything similar, and when others pay any attention at all, it’s likely to scoff or worse.