Brutalist
Brutalist
A house, not a home.
A vison, not a dream.
A cult, not a culture.
The sharp corners and the straight edges bleed the soul.
The mute grey stone and the sterile florescent bulbs – a prison for the innocent.
The discordant chords and the perverse poems – an abominable torture.
Monsters. Made heroes.
Heroes. Made monsters.
Ugly made beauty, beauty made ugly.
The inverted carousel of ideologies.