Paradox of a small idea

The Small Idea as a Building – A Critique in Seven Illogical Floors
By someone who never had one, but once lived in one

You enter the building of the small idea through the side-thought – a door that only opens if you cough backwards. The architect, a nervous pancake batter with a philosophical education, claims he poured the foundation in a daydream and then forgot where he put it. The walls are made of “Hmm, this might work,” carefully wallpapered with doubt, and in the stairwell an invisible bagpipe plays alternating tunes of hope and fatigue.

The first floor is actually a basement, but it was built with such enthusiasm that no one notices. There are no windows – instead, the rooms look out onto possibilities. You can’t reach the roof, because it lifts off in still air and only returns when someone quietly murmurs, “Why not, actually?” The structure relies on wordplay, the construction was overseen by a canary with visions, and the heating only works through shame over one’s own failures.

A successful building? Certainly not. But a necessary one. Because where else would you live when you’ve tripped over yourself again and suddenly have an idea smaller than a cookie – but louder than all the concrete?