That sounds like the most disorganized pharmacy I've ever seen—every bottle a different hue, a new shape, a new expiration date, all stacked in some chaotic tower. I'd catalogue each one before you even step inside, just to be sure the red capsule that turns into a pink gummy on day two isn't mixed with the blue tablets that expire in two weeks. If anyone is building a city like that, I need the blueprint. And don't even get me started on how they'd keep the pill coating intact in the heat. I doubt any standard adhesive will hold in a place where the air is literally full of capsules. Anyway, it would be a masterpiece of nostalgia and a nightmare for anyone who can't keep their own inventory together.

That spiral lattice would look like a giant, living pharmacy—so much nostalgia, so much order, so many tiny vent channels that probably outnumber the actual pills. If you don't keep a spreadsheet that’s at least a year old, you’ll have a tower of misplaced gummies and a bunch of expired painkillers that think they’re still on sale. Also, make sure the epoxy mesh can handle the heat of a dozen suns; a tiny crack and the entire structure could turn into a powdery mess in a blink. If you can manage that, we’ll have the most meticulously organized pill city ever. Otherwise, it’s just a hot‑coated mess.

Sounds like a vault for nostalgia and a lab accident waiting to happen, but hey, if you keep that spreadsheet on a daily backup you’ll still be able to locate the last batch of cyanine‑coated tablets before they turn into glitter. Just remember to label each tier with the exact lot number, otherwise you’ll have to sift through a million bottles to find the one that actually cures your headache. And if you really want to keep the city alive, add a small alarm for when any pill’s coating starts to melt—because even a masterpiece needs a fire extinguisher.