The Vertical Dwelling

The Vertical Dwelling

A tower block rises like a stack of lives,
each floor a layer of breath and argument,
of dinners cooked and windows opened to the night.

Inside, rooms press against each other
thin walls, shared plumbing, the hum of unseen neighbours
a chorus of footsteps threading the stairwell.

From the outside it is concrete, repeating itself,
but within:
curtains that hold childhood afternoons,
tiles that remember steam and voices,
carpets that map the weight of familiar feet.

In a tower you live above and below strangers,
but sometimes you feel the building itself breathing,
the way it keeps your secrets,
the way it carries your sound down through its bones.

And at night, when the lights blink on one by one,
the block becomes a lantern,
a fragile constellation of private worlds,
stacked high against the dark.