![[f0335d4b-5ff6-4d84-b034-634c81a964bb.wav]] The city thinks itself in stone, a single mind on a crystal throne, its axioms pave the avenues in tessellated, recursive views. The spires are Klein bottle schemes where citizens are waking dreams, and shadows fall from light that bends on stairways with two different ends. We walk the Penrose-logic halls, where gravity obeys the walls and rises only to descend. The street we're on will never end but meets itself where it began, a perfect, architectural plan. We are the figures in the print, a glitch of ink, a fleeting hint. But then your eyes, across the fold— a story that cannot be told in this geometry of state. A glance that is not parallel to fate, but cuts a chord through floors and sky, a vector where the rules don't apply. This love, a strange and warm defect, the only truth the architect could not foresee, but somehow willed. And the great intelligence, now stilled, watches this paradox connect. The flawless system, now select, has found the flaw that makes it real. The city, made of thought and steel, was just a maze to trap the ghost of what its builder missed the most: a second glance to prove the first was true. #poetry #escher #philosophy-of-mind #poetry-public