This is clearly not a pigture,
this is a stack of arguments
someone forgot to finish
and accidentally built as a house.

The room: pink like a shy migraine,
corners smudged,
walls humming bubblegum philosophy.
In the middle stands
the tower of colorful contradictions,
three floors of “yes, but also no,”
with balconies in fluorescent compromise.

Ground floor:
a turquoise block says
WELCOME TO THE STORAGE OF UNSAID THINGS.
Inside, pastels of former conversations
lean against one another,
crates labelled
LATER / ANOTHER TIME / DON’T ROCK THE BOAT.
A ramp of purple guilt
slides down into a blue silence
where nothing is thrown away,
only carefully misplaced.

First floor:
offices for misfiled emotions.
Yellow folders, neon bright,
contain all the jokes
you wished you had told at the right moment.
A green panel acts as the HR department
for overflowing tenderness;
it stamps each feeling with
APPROVED BUT INCONVENIENT
and sends it to the open-plan heart
downstairs.

Between floors
run hot pink beams,
structural optimism,
rated for earthquakes and minor disappointments.
They creak slightly
under the weight of last winter,
but they refuse to collapse;
there is too much unfinished dancing
left in the design.

The second floor is dedicated
to impossible plans.
Magenta shelving carries
blueprints drawn in highlighter ink:
learn Icelandic overnight,
start a band with your future self,
rename every day of the week
after small pleasures—
Tea-day, Window-day, Schweineglück-day.
A lime-green column
argues for the feasibility of all this
using only exclamation marks.

On the roof
sits a terrace of almost-cyan doubt.
From here you can see
where the pink room ends
and the rest of life begins,
a faint horizon sketched in pencil.
The architect left a note up there:

“Perspective optional.
Color compulsory.
Gravity negotiable.”

Somewhere near the back
a crooked staircase is hiding,
drawn in half-hearted lines.
It knows it should lead somewhere—
to a door, a thesis, a stable identity—
but keeps getting distracted
by its own angles.
People start to climb,
forget what they wanted,
and come back down
with a new favourite shade of turquoise instead.

Every rectangle in this house
claims to be a window.
Some open onto yesterday,
replaying that one scene
where you said “it’s fine”
and meant “this wall is cracking.”
Others open onto a future
where all the pink surfaces
have faded gently into acceptance.
A few stubborn panes
look directly into the pockets
of other people on the subway—
ticket stubs, shopping lists,
crumbs of parallel universes.

On the left façade
runs a vertical strip of serious blue:
the emergency ladder for rational thought.
You can call it
whenever the magenta beams
start singing at 3 a.m.
about all the lives
you are not living.
The blue ladder will appear,
offer you three deep breaths
and a mildly sceptical eyebrow,
then vanish back into the structure
before anyone accuses it
of being sentimental.

Every so often
a maintenance crew of pencil lines
comes to check the outlines.
They inspect each joint,
each corner where green
kisses yellow in unstable friendship.
Their verdict is always the same:

“Statically improbable.
Emotionally necessary.
Continue as built.”

On the pink wall behind the house
shadows practice being solid.
They rehearse their edges,
whispering rehearsed speeches:
“I am your past,”
“I am your possible breakdown,”
“I am just the lamp, relax.”
But the light keeps changing,
and none of them manages
to hold the role for long.

This building has no address,
only moods.
Sometimes it is “the place where you once believed
you could start over on a Tuesday.”
Sometimes it is “the contained chaos
of all your sticky notes,
expanded to metropolitan scale.”
Today it is
“a safe experimental zone
for unmarketable versions of yourself.”

Inside, there is a small lobby
with a guest book.
People sign not with names
but with colors they feel inside:
today I am 40% mint,
30% wet sky,
30% fluorescent highlighter
left uncapped on the desk.
The pages shine like a weather report
for interior climates.

A rumour circulates
that in the basement
lives a tiny invisible pig
made entirely of leftover pink pigment.
It wanders between foundations,
sniffing at doubts,
nudging any load-bearing fear
until it loosens its tie.
Sometimes, late at night,
the whole house giggles quietly—
that’s the pig telling impolite jokes
about straight lines.

Architects of reason
walk past this picture,
shake their heads,
mutter about regulations and feasibility.
Dada just shrugs,
leans against a lime-green column,
and eats the building codes for lunch.
In the afternoon
it rearranges the colors for no reason
except the pleasure of surprise.

If you stand long enough
in front of this house,
your own outlines start to blur.
Your shoulders pick up
a faint turquoise glow,
your doubts acquire balconies,
your habits lean out of yellow windows
to gossip with your dreams.
You realize, quietly,
that you too are under construction
in a pink-walled room
inside someone else’s imagination.

The house notices you noticing.
A small magenta beam
winks in your direction.
A cyan panel slides aside
to reveal a hidden entrance
labelled simply:

“UNFINISHED STOREYS OF YOU.”

No ticket,
no ID,
just step in,
stack your colors
wherever they fit badly,
and let the shaky pencil lines
redraw the day
around your crooked brightness.