The Week The Heatwave Arrived And The Fans Gave Up
Pepi’s text landed at 06:41: “Kitchen says 29°C already.” The city hadn’t earned that number yet. By 08:15 the stairwell felt like a parked bus.
Pepi’s text landed at 06:41: “Kitchen says 29°C already.” The city hadn’t earned that number yet. By 08:15 the stairwell felt like a parked bus.
Couldn’t sleep, so I went walking. Past midnight, streets quieter but never silent — mopeds whining, bins being dragged, someone arguing on a balcony. Ended
The lift died again yesterday. Halfway up, halfway down, nobody’s sure. The doors jammed, lights flickered, and poor Carmen from the third floor was stuck
We had another neighbour meeting. Always a mistake. Someone pins a note in the lift — half the building turns up, the other half pretends
Diagonal Mar again. I don’t know why I keep walking there. Maybe because the towers glare at you like smug teenagers. All glass, all angles,
The boiler coughed again last night. One of those deep, metallic clunks that makes you hold your breath to see if it’s going to finish
I didn’t go inside WSB14. Couldn’t afford it at the time, and honestly the idea of sitting through another PowerPoint about “resilient urban ecosystems” made