The buildings have been in competition since they were very young. Every year they stretch further up into the sky, becoming more grotesque with their many eyes and mouths. They jostle for space, and whisper slander to one another in gravelly voices. One day, they will lose their balance and topple to the street. The rubble will reassemble and the race will start again.
The rest of the street was grey and new, or at least not as old as the majority of people who walked it. But no-one dared topple 65 and 67. Oh, a tycoon with the capitalist gleam in their eye would sometimes try to buy one or the other building; but the owners could never be found. The tenants would only say “ask next door”, and the tenants next door would say the same.
No-one ever noticed they were the same tenants - living in both buildings, persisting and inhabiting across the decades.