The sky has been ironed smooth,
a single sheet of turquoise
pinned to the top of the day.

Against it, the building hesitates,
leaning like a sentence
that forgot where to put the verb.
Beams slash across the picture,
black and purple,
as if someone underlined reality
again and again
until it began to tilt.

Behind the beams: panes.
Yellow, lime, orange,
a shy mint green,
a corridor of lavender decisions.
They look like candy
that accidentally grew up
and became architecture.

Every window in this house
has a personality disorder.

The neon yellow ones
think they’re highlighters
and try to mark the important parts of the world.
Unfortunately, the world keeps moving,
so they underline only passing pigeons
and unfinished thoughts.

The green panes
insist they are small meadows,
temporarily trapped in glass
for research purposes.
If you press your ear against them,
you can hear
grass gossiping about clouds
and earthworms reciting Marx.

The orange rectangles
are theater curtains
frozen mid-dramatic-swoosh.
They are forever one second away
from revealing a big scene—
a confession, a revolution,
or maybe just
an overwatered houseplant
having an existential crisis.

At street level
(whatever “street level” means
when the whole façade is falling sideways),
magenta rails slide across the view
like runaway underlines,
too enthusiastic to stay in the book.

This is not a building;
it’s a choreography of almost-walls
practicing pirouettes in slow motion.

Inside, nobody walks in straight lines.
Corridors drift gently uphill;
elevators stop at floors
that were never designed.
You step out on
Level 5½:
Department of Misplaced Intentions.

The receptionist is a vertical stripe
of deep violet.
She hands you a form
without paper,
asks you to fill it in
with “whatever you were going to think anyway.”

On Level Yellow,
you find the School for Shy Lightning.
Bolts of light sit in small desks,
learning how to strike politely,
with trigger warnings and footnotes.
Their notebooks are full of sketches
of this very façade,
annotated with crackling laughter.

On Level Mint,
there is a library of drafts.
Every book is unfinished,
every paragraph ends
just before the crucial word.
Readers leave the room
with sentences still growing out of their hair.

On Level Pink,
a research group investigates
the possibility that cities
are just elaborate disguises
for awkward hugs.
From the window you see
streets bending in sympathy,
bridges blushing,
traffic lights blinking like unsure compliments.

The higher you go,
the more the corridors lean.
Ceilings flirt with floors;
staircases practice being waterfalls.
Shadow and neon argue quietly
about who owns the edges.

Out on the façade again,
the black beams slice through color
like perfectly serious eyebrows
over a delirious face.
They try to hold the composition together,
but the purple keeps singing,
the red keeps remembering fire,
the green keeps dreaming of compost.

At the right side
a vertical pillar of magenta and lilac
pretends to be stable.
If you touch it,
you feel a faint vibration—
the heartbeat of a structure
that secretly wants to become sound.

Below, where the colors
fade into dusty coral and peach,
the building rehearses its origin story:
a sketch in a bored notebook,
a margin doodle that refused
to stay in the margin.
Someone added a line of cyan,
just for fun.
The line grew walls,
grew floors,
grew tenants made of geometry and sighs.

Now, the whole place
leans into the turquoise sky
like a question:
What if gravity is just a suggestion,
and perspective
a rumor we politely believe?

The sky does not answer.
It stretches, flawless,
like a thought with no consequences.

The windows, undeterred,
continue their experiments.

One yellow pane opens slightly
and spills a thin beam of optimism
onto the street below.
A pedestrian steps in it by accident
and spends the rest of the day
suspiciously hopeful.

A green pane fogs up
from talking too much
to the indoor plants.
Someone draws a smiley face
into the mist,
then changes it into parentheses,
then into quotation marks
around nothing.

Behind an orange strip
two shadows are arguing
the precise angle
at which a life becomes a detour.
Their voices ricochet
off the magenta frames,
turning into half-remembered melodies.

From far away,
the building looks like a ship,
caught forever
in the act of deciding
whether to sail into the sky
or sink into its own reflection.

Up close,
it feels more like a thought
that never ends,
only changes color.

You step back.
The lines slide over each other,
planes intersect,
yellows blink,
mints murmur.

For a second
you are sure
you see the façade inhale.

Not dramatically—
just a small, private breath,
as if all these restless windows
were lungs in disguise,
testing the air of possibility.

Then the moment folds
back into pigment.

The sky remains impossible blue.
The building continues
its elegant collapse into light.

And you,
tilted slightly now,
walk away carrying
a fragment of neon and slant
inside your ribcage—
a tiny diagonal room
with no furniture
and too many windows,
waiting for the next
improbable horizon.