A freestanding brick wall on the northside of DeSiard near Eighth, in the abandoned zone, the shadow of the overpass. Lone upright interface of two demolished multistory buildings, their common feature the only visible remnant of either.
There stands a man very still, head tilted, alone on the sidewalk, staring at the multicolored multitextured individual bricks in the matrix as if examining heiroglyphics inscrutable to everyone else save him. Staring at the spaces where windows--doors were, long filled with further varying brickshades.
He wears low slung pants, loose belt, knit shirt, goatee via inattention. A small styrofoam cup sits 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 lived in one place the entirety of his life but still refuses to become accustomed to it.
