Rain weathers the edifice, rendering a map, revealing topography once reserved only for quarrymen. Or: cheese mites are back, this time hungering for brown bricks. Haring figures dance into stone, their borders formed by dried-up streams. It’s not a matter of design, walls always wait. Revelation’s inevitable. Little rill marks, set a-vibe like liquid jazz, glide eyes to the front door. Focus on what’s beyond walls—places where humans are. Why stare at dirt?

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