There's an unyielding spirit that burns inside of it, some force that won't allow it to be clothed. It parades its nakedness with pride. Paint doesn't seem to stick. Shingles won't come near it. Wood and rock flee from it.
Builders run and hide from the sight of it, shielding their faces in shame.
They dare not look upon it, lest they be seduced by its exposed beams and undone bathrooms, and thus be forced to take yet another week off. Builders, of course, are fine people. Some of my best friends are builders, really. I guess the only problem I have with them, when it comes down to it, is that nothing they say is true. That and the fact that they're not very good with math.