Along the Mediterranean coast of Spain, what’s taking shape isn’t urban development in any traditional or meaningful sense—it is a metastasis, a spreading malignancy of architectural form that mimics the density of real cities while utterly lacking their depth. These aren't towns evolving or cities expanding organically; they are speculative shells, pumped full of concrete and debt, then abandoned to seasonal vacancy. Built environments without real environments, designed not for life but for extraction. They emerge rapidly, flourish briefly under the glare of summer tourism, then fall silent—empty balconies, shuttered windows, drained pools, and ghost streets. This isn’t tourism anymore—it’s urban thrombosis, where the accumulation of matter—glass, steel, asphalt—clots the natural and social arteries of the land. Circulation is blocked: not only of bodies, but of meaning, tradition, memory, and routine. What should be a city becomes a platform for absentee ownership, where houses are booked like hotel rooms, and the very notion of home is liquified into pure transaction. The city becomes not a place to dwell, but a mechanism to generate yield. And the consequences are devastating: schools close because there are no children, buses vanish because there are no commuters, hospitals downsize because care is not needed by the hour. Life is no longer continuous but fragmented, broken by the artificial pulse of high season. What’s left behind is a simulacrum of urbanism—plenty of infrastructure but no intimacy, façades but no face-to-face. The illusion of vitality masks a profound stillness, a hollowing out of the civic. A true city sustains stories, rituals, intergenerational bonds. Here, instead, we find voids dressed as vitality, neighborhoods built to remain strangers. This is not just an architectural or economic failure—it is a political wound and a cultural rupture, a sign that we’ve traded belonging for profitability, permanence for flexibility, and presence for throughput. To address this crisis requires more than new regulations or better design—it requires a radical ethics of inhabitation, a philosophy of duration and rootedness in a time obsessed with mobility, liquidity, and endless turnover. Only by reclaiming the right to dwell—not merely to occupy—can we begin to restore meaning to the urban fabric and repair what speculative urbanism has systematically erased.