1
Night folds itself like stiff blue paper,
creases sharp as an architect’s regret.
In the middle of this folded sky
a tower stands,
melting and angular at the same time,
like a piano made of crayons
dropped down a stairwell of equations.

2
Do not adjust your eyesight.
The building is already drunk for you.
Columns drip sideways,
windows run vertically like mascara,
yellow spills over pink,
cyan apologizes to violet
and then does it again, louder.
Concrete suddenly remembers
it once wanted to be sunlight.

3
Someone says:
This is not a pigture,
this is only a picture,
and the tower snorts in offense,
a mute brutalist syllable,
all consonant, no vowel.
If there were pigs,
they’d be flying elevators,
stopping on every second floor
to deliver oinks and manifestos.
But tonight there are no pigs,
only rectangles trying to learn jazz.

4
Every window is a rumor.
Behind one, a typewriter
dreams of becoming an escalator.
Behind another, a cup of coffee
argues with a beam of light
about who is more essential
to the concept of Monday.
Higher up, a lonely socket
waits for a lamp that never arrives,
writing love letters to voltage.

5
The tower speaks in reverb:
I was born from the thud
of a dropped blueprint,
it says.
The engineer sneezed,
the ruler twitched,
and the line that should have been straight
learned the pleasure of hesitation.
That’s why the walls lean
like tired revolutionaries,
arms full of slogans,
pockets full of dust.

6
A diagonal street
slides under the building
like a doubt under a decision.
Cars do not pass;
they hover in potential,
little unopened brackets of noise.
On the corner,
a traffic light flashes all three colors at once
and calls it democracy.
The pedestrians are absent,
replaced by the idea of footsteps
scribbled in invisible ink.

7
Somewhere between the third and fourth floor,
gravity forgets the script.
Stairs droop, then rise, then ripple,
a concrete waterfall going nowhere in particular.
If you climb them,
you never reach the top
but you do discover
a new word for vertigo
every seventh step.
The handrail laughs quietly,
a line of steel punctuation
correcting your posture.

8
On the roof
a cylinder and a rectangle
argue about metaphysics.
The cylinder believes in circles,
returns, reruns, repetitions:
Everything is a loop, it hums,
even collapse repeats itself.
The rectangle insists on edges,
believes in finality,
maps its own outline on the night
and calls that a doctrine.
The building listens politely,
pretending to be neutral
while leaning a little more
toward the side with better colors.

9
At ground level
a small cross of shadow appears,
cut by the neon runoff,
like a forgotten annotation:
Here once stood a human,
maybe an architect,
maybe just someone
waiting for a bus that never came.
Now the bus is a rumor,
the timetable a myth,
and the stop is incorporated
into the facade as decoration.

10
Inside the concrete,
there is still rough stone,
inside the stone,
compressed storms,
inside the storms,
tiny debates about meaning.
Each pigment on the wall
is a failed decision,
a compromise between sunrise and bruise.
Yellow is not sure whether it belongs to joy;
magenta suspects it might be guilty of nostalgia.
Blue keeps quiet,
pretending to be night
while secretly wanting to be ocean.

11
A child once drew this building
with wax crayons on cheap paper.
The paper wrinkled,
the crayons broke,
and the drawing fell asleep in a drawer.
Years later,
the city found the dream
and poured concrete into it.
Now the tower stands here,
a scaled-up memory
with bad perspective
and excellent intentions.

12
Dada walks by—
not a person,
just a ripple in the logic field.
It stops,
tilts its invisible hat,
and whispers to the tower:
You are a poem that forgot its language,
so you speak in balconies and vertical smears.
The tower blushes in extra neon,
leaking turquoise apologies
onto the sidewalk of nobody.

13
There is no moon,
only a missing circle
the color of reasoning.
The sky is solid navy,
as if the universe closed early
for inventory.
Stars knock from the other side,
complaining about the noise,
but the building just hums
its electric lullaby
on repeat,
a chord of cement, glass,
and unresolved questions.

14
In the end—
although there is no end,
only a change of slope—
the tower decides
it is not a building at all
but an organ made for playing light.
Every pane a note,
every column a pipe,
every shadow a rest.
Someone, somewhere,
is pressing unseen keys,
composing a song called
How Color Survived Concrete.

And you,
standing outside the frame,
are the echo.