Accidence

Every balcony is a poem, a chant — a muscle. But whoever lives with that extra blueprint luxury of a balcony lives on the wrong side of a cross-section, on the busy, narrative-addled side of something like an ant-farm window, a brazen architectural arrangement selling cheap peeks into the naked sideshows of the quotidian — even the grisly. Step right up. Behold. A ten story wall of solid twitching muscle.