1
Magenta falls from the sky like an error message.
The world was supposed to reboot in neutral grey,
but someone spilled bubble-gum cosmos
all over the architectural render.
Now the building stands here,
half fortress, half collage,
leaning forward like an embarrassed thought
that tripped over its own importance
and pretends this angle was intentional.

2
This is a picture, not a pigture.
No snouts, no tails,
only corners rooting in the ground
and edges snuffling along the horizon.
If pigs existed here,
they’d be structural engineers
with helmets the color of midnight blueberry,
arguing about load-bearing paradoxes
and the emotional weight of right angles.
But they are elsewhere;
today, only rectangles get to grunt.

3
The base of the structure is a mistranslated smile,
a broad curve built from bricks of “almost” and “not quite.”
It hovers above the cracked peach ground,
supported by shy columns
that clearly didn’t sign up for this much existential pressure.
They look up and ask,
“Are we holding the building
or is the building holding the idea of us?”
Nobody answers;
the blue beams are busy rehearsing their stoicism.

4
Each block on the façade is a sentence
deleted from an urban planning document.
Yellow squares remember being optimistic adjectives.
Navy rectangles were once strict nouns,
responsible, heavy, impossible to conjugate away.
Reddish patches still carry the faint odor
of bureaucratic coffee.
Together they form a paragraph
the city tried to write
about efficiency, progress, and parking spaces—
then crumpled and taped onto this structure instead.

5
From a distance,
you might mistake it for a government building
or a museum of abandoned promises.
Up close,
you notice the joints don’t quite meet,
like politeness covering a disagreement.
Lines overlap and wander off,
refusing to obey the classic brutalist script
of pure function and exposed honesty.
This building lies cheerfully:
“I am stable,” it says,
while every plane tilts like a question.

6
The magenta sky is not background but supervisor.
It stares so intensely
that the shadows refuse to clock in.
Under this gaze,
the structure sweats in blue and mustard,
remembering the old days
when concrete could hide behind weather.
Now every flaw glows.
The crooked balcony,
the misaligned window,
the beam that decided to be a diagonal activist—
all of them outlined
as if by a neon highlighter of architectural guilt.

7
People used to live here, allegedly.
You can still see traces:
a window that looks like it once framed a plant,
a ledge shaped exactly
for forgotten coffee cups and complicated breakups.
In the top left,
a narrow vertical slot
pretends it was never a bedroom,
just a long thin doubt
inserted for ventilation.
Where did the residents go?
Perhaps the building leaned one night
a few degrees too far into metaphor
and everyone slid out into the magenta.

8
A rumor circulates among nearby traffic signs:
this whole structure is actually a machine
for bending gravity into opinions.
Stand on the orange pavement too long
and you begin to tilt in sympathy,
your thoughts pouring sideways,
spilling from your ears in tiled fragments.
You start believing
that stairs should run horizontally,
elevators ought to move in spirals,
and emergency exits should lead
into larger emergencies,
just to keep the narrative interesting.

9
Dada arrives with a clipboard made of chalk.
It checks the building’s credentials:
solid nonsense? yes.
chromatic overstatement? yes.
compliance with local absurdity codes?
excellent.
Dada writes in big loopy letters:
“THIS IS NOT WRONG ENOUGH TO FAIL
AND NOT RIGHT ENOUGH TO PASS.
THEREFORE: PERFECT.”
The building shivers with pride,
dislodging a small teal rectangle
that flutters down like a confused pigeon
and lands among the cracks,
instantly promoted to public sculpture.

10
Night will come eventually,
though the magenta fights it
with every grain of pigment.
When it does,
the structure won’t darken;
it will simply swap roles with the sky.
The walls will glow inward,
turning hallways into fuchsia tunnels
where lost ideas gather
to form impromptu committees.
They will vote on new floor plans
for feelings,
deciding where to locate
the department of sudden joy
and the emergency stairwell for doubt.

11
If you walk around the building three times,
whispering your most practical thoughts,
the façade rearranges them
into something completely unusable but beautiful.
A plan for grocery shopping
returns as a blueprint
for a floating cinema.
A tax declaration mutates
into instructions for building
a communal kite out of unresolved childhood.
Your calendar melts
into an orange tile
that fits perfectly
just under the left corner of the arch.

12
In the end—
although the end is just a bend
in the ground’s pink grammar—
the building decides it is not architecture
but choreography nailed to the floor.
Every line is a frozen step,
every block a held pose,
every tilt the memory
of a fall that has been postponed.
You stand before it,
a temporary spectator
in this theatre of stubborn geometry,
and you feel your own spine
lean ever so slightly off-center,
as if your body wants
to join the misalignment.

Congratulations,
the magenta gravity has accepted you.
You may now leave the frame,
but a small slanted piece of you
will stay cemented here,
between a blue rectangle and a yellow doubt,
part of the brutalist puzzle
in a city that keeps choosing
color over certainty.