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Gelb brennt die Wand hinter uns,eine Sonne aus Filzstift und Nervensystem,während ich, das hohe blaue Glas,mich in die Länge ziehe wie ein verspäteter Gedanke. Neben mir der grüne Becher,breit, beleidigt, halb durchsichtig,ein sozialdemokratischer Zylinder im Feierabendmodus,flüstert: “Heute trinken wir die Linie, nicht den Inhalt.” Wir sind zwei Behälter ohne Getränk,aber voller Geräusch:schabende Bleistiftbahnen,klirrende Kringel,ein bisschen „tschik-tschak“ vom Marker,und irgendwo ein Kellner, der nur aus Ausrufezeichen besteht. Die Schwerkraft wurde storniert,Stattdessen gilt Paragraph 1des Gesetzbuchs für… read more – weiterlesen The Synchromystic Glass Parliament

This is not a still life.This is an early-morning argument between shapes. The yellow jug clears its polygonal throat.It has handles like conspiracy theories,going nowhere in particular but very certain about it.Out of its mouth explode branches,hard-edged, turquoise, decisive,like exclamation marks that refused to learn grammar. The background is a riot of late-night decisions:magenta that never went home,violet that forgot why it was sad,orange that pretends to be sunriseeven though the day has already passed… read more – weiterlesen Salad of Branches, Breakfast of Circles

The picture leans toward me, crooked and polite,roofs doing yoga under a radioactive lemon sky,windows stacked like misplaced books,every color humming a different off-key hymn. I arrive as a tourist without a map.The air tastes of graphite and bubble gum.Some architect sneezed and the city never recovered.So I check in at the corner of Cyan Street and Magenta Memoryand let the lines decide which way is “up” today. In this universe, gravity is a diagonal… read more – weiterlesen Lemon Sky Building Choir

1Magenta falls from the sky like an error message.The world was supposed to reboot in neutral grey,but someone spilled bubble-gum cosmosall over the architectural render.Now the building stands here,half fortress, half collage,leaning forward like an embarrassed thoughtthat tripped over its own importanceand pretends this angle was intentional. 2This is a picture, not a pigture.No snouts, no tails,only corners rooting in the groundand edges snuffling along the horizon.If pigs existed here,they’d be structural engineerswith helmets the… read more – weiterlesen MAGENTA GRAVITY MANUAL (FOR BRUTALIST BEGINNERS)

1The city wakes up sideways.It stretches in blocks and cylinders,yawning in magenta,rubbing its eyes with yellow thumbs.Somewhere, a straight line was planned,but it oversleptand a curve took its place,wearing bright lipstick and bad intentions. They will tell you this is architecture.They will be wrong.This is choreography fossilized in chalk,a freeze-frame of movementthat forgot how to stop. 2First rule of tonight:this is a picture, not a pigture.No snouts in sight,no curly-tailed inspectors of reality.The absence oinks… read more – weiterlesen BRUTALIST CARNIVAL WITH NO PIGS ALLOWED

1Night folds itself like stiff blue paper,creases sharp as an architect’s regret.In the middle of this folded skya tower stands,melting and angular at the same time,like a piano made of crayonsdropped down a stairwell of equations. 2Do 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 violetand then does it again, louder.Concrete suddenly remembersit once wanted to be sunlight. 3Someone says:This is not… read more – weiterlesen NEON BRUTALISM FORGOT ITS SHADOWS

Today the wall refuses greyand becomes a pocket revolution. Nine loud polygons meet at a point,arguing about which color is reality. Pink votes for softness,red for alarm,blue for silence with depth. The black lines are border control,pretending to keep them apart— but the eye crosses anyway,smuggling joy from green to orange,from yellow to night-blue, until the whole little mapadmits it is not a diagram at all,just a heart sliced into shapesto see what it’s made… read more – weiterlesen Small Brutalist Flag of Feelings

The city has put on stripes today,a pyramid torso in rainbow wool. Streets run around it like loose threads,blue avenues knitting the blocks together. Balconies pile up like folded T-shirts,magenta, mustard, cyan, repeat. Somewhere a planner whispers:this was supposed to be efficient. But the houses lean in, gossiping in color,forming cul-de-sacs of unnecessary joy. The central plaza is a hexagon of maybe,waiting for a fountain, a protest, a kiss. Brutalism here forgot its grey vocabularyand… read more – weiterlesen Brutalist City Wearing a Sweater

Someone dropped a brutalist towerand it slid into the color spectrum. Corridors stretch like chewing gum,yellow arguing with blue about gravity. In the middle, a pink room curls up,a shy square pretending to be a snail. Streets become ribbons,ceilings become rivers,nothing remembers which side is up. This is what happenswhen an architect sneezes during a drawing: the city turns diagonal,time runs sideways, and you discoverthat the shortest way homeis a spiral that doesn’t end.

The building packed itselfand left the city. Now it squats on watercolor ground,a backpack of magenta roofs and teal corridors. Every triangle is a forgotten entrance,every rectangle a room that changed its mind. Orange remembers staircases,blue remembers rain,violet just wants to be a curtain. This is architecture on the run,a concrete animal made of corners, dragging its shadows across the paperand asking quietly: if I no longer touch the street,am I still a houseor already… read more – weiterlesen Brutalist Nomad With A Suitcase of Rooms