It's my understanding that normal folks look at pictures of movie stars and other attractive people on their computers after work. As for me, I look at Brutalist housing blocs in the second world. Obvious reasons, I suppose. Concrete bunkers ten stories up that could be filled with paperback Hegel, et al., a wooden table, and a camp bed. And a proper kitchen, not the hot-plate-in-the-counter-and-a-fridge rooms that seem to be the default now.
It's human to imagine a better world. The difference is that I'm imagining a place with fewer things, and fewer ideas, and fewer charms of its own. The ideal, and one not hidden behind a cloud of ideas and marketing concepts. The thing itself.
One reservation: the concrete of 75 years ago might be of varying health now, especially the aerated types. Roman concrete lasts for 2,000 years, but ours is a bit more provisional.
When it was first built, I used to read the Sunday Times at the glass-fronted coffeehouse in front of Juilliard at Lincoln Center. One day, a fellow came by who claimed to be the architect. Seemed credible, so I played along. I asked him why they hadn't made something of stone that would last for centuries. He seemed more interested in expressive, windowed forms that would get a hundred years or so.
When we try to invest everything with art, and meaningfulness, we stop paying attention to what they are in their essence. These houses and apartment blocs have a life, but it's not the angle that is played up in the newspaper sections and magazine, for the simple reason that newspapers and magazines are limited to variations on the common vocabulary -- making the thing itself, of which there are as many as there are monads in the world, always a simple refutation.
(Rereading Houses of Belgrade, incidentally.)