A freestanding brick wall on the northside of DeSiard near Eighth, in the abandoned zone, shadow of the overpass. Lone upright interface between two demolished multistory buildings, the only remnant of either.
There stands a man very still, head tilted, alone on the sidewalk, staring at the multicolored individual bricks in the matrix as if examining heiroglyphics inscrutable to everyone else but him. Staring at the spaces where windows—doors used to be, long filled with further varying brickshades.
He wears low-slung pants, union shirt, face stubble via inattention. A small styrofoam cup in his left hand, splashy from tremors, cinnamon and salt mixed in. His manner is deferent, edgy, but not quite on the extreme end of things. Yet. He is for all the world like a man who has remained in one place the entirety of his life but still refuses to become accustomed to it.
