A pixelated Parthenon holds the summit. Its central gap, opened by the 1687 explosion, is drawn as calm dark blocks. At the foot of the slope, a modern building directly beneath the Acropolis lies freshly collapsed, its dust dragged downward in pixel-sorted bands toward small cells of amber light in vigil for the people who died.

Two explosions on one hill. The summit stays intact because the 1687 wound has been photographed, recopied and archived until the file treats it as structure. It renders clean. The new collapse is still raw data: a hard slab, rows sliding off its edges, dust sorted into streaks. Once quantized, the two wounds share a vocabulary. To an encoder, broken marble and broken concrete are the same blocks, and the parallel holds at a glance. The sort streaks carry the frame's motion downward, from old stone to new rubble to the haze. The cells are the detail I would not let compress. The columns have outlived two roofs.