It began like climbing scaffolding on the side of a Manhattan high-rise — the kind of climb that makes the body remember both gravity and grace.

The mushroom is the scaffolding itself — not the glass tower, not the skyline, but the quiet metal ribs between perception and what lies beneath.

The first dab of infused honey was like stepping onto the first plank: a small move, almost trivial, yet it changed the view. Suddenly the air shifted — emotions, long hidden behind the mirrored façade of the rational mind like sunlight bouncing off veneer, began to fog the windows from the inside because compacted heat.

So, like a window cleaner with trembling hands, scared of heights, one began to type in the 32nd floor office while the cleaner wipes the glass with topological materials!

Each stroke of awareness is revealing something new beneath the grime: family, love, the sense of being overwhelmed, the endless “How?” that loops like traffic below vs the trivium and quadrivium!

Every thought is like a commodified floor, every feeling a pane of glass catching the morning light or sunset differently.

Twilight : Dawn -> Dusk or Disk (dusk) —-> Dawn

And the mushroom whispered — not in words but in structure: Rebuild?

The building is wealthy enough already; just clean the glass so the light can pass.

The tears came like rain against the façade after an earthquake shook the foundations because rooftop pools don’t always trickle down, they’re homegrown like organic or bottom up modalities .

The laughter follows like sunlight refracting off wet glass. Singing, moving, shaking — all of it was the body’s way of rinsing the dust of repression, capitulation, submission, oppression and such off the windows of awareness and this allows the muscles to remember. Emotional constipation wasn’t a blockage at all; it was simply the streaks left by years of ignoring what needed to be cleaned.

When the work was done — or rather, when the cleaning stopped trying to finish itself — one could see through the glass again. Below, Manhattan’s grid stretched endlessly, each block a question, each avenue an updated and revised memory like retrocausality!

From above, it all looked like a neural map — an electric manifold of feeling and form.

That’s when the realization landed softly, like a drop of honey on the tongue:

The mushroom (metonymy and metaphor) is like a language and it wasn’t the builder, nor the window, nor even the cleaner.

It was the breath of spirit between each motion — the rhythm that makes all cleaning possible.

And as the scaffolding creaked in the afternoon wind, gratitude filled the space like light through spotless glass. The city didn’t change. The view did.

The mind had stopped tearing up — it is remembering its own holes, its own airways.

That’s the real architecture of knowing:

Not building higher, but polishing what already shines like rammed earth of a beautiful terrace garden.