Rebuild: The proper use of scars in modern architecture

I made a small like error, I’ve marred the goods.

Marks have been made, like a dogs desperation on a door they’ve be scratched into me without a second thought. They’re a cry for attention, a cry for love and affection.

Like bad marks on good wood, I’ll cover my mishap with thick war paint and obvious garments. I’m ready for presentation. Ready to be boxed away. God how I want my fine sandalwood skin to be torn from my pink ivory bones to create a monster so similar to the one inside. A beast half alive and half formed. I’m living half a life and I haven’t even lived half a life. Let my foundations rot and my walls peel let me be “silly.” This is not living. This is existing. Let me feel blood pounding like drums in the distance from my Purple heart onto my ever dying skin.

Let the house collapse.

Reuse the materials.

Rebuild.