I am about to settle in yet another doorway, to turn and sit and watch the passers-by. But I hesitate. Others have lingered here. There are empty beer cans at my feet and fast-food wrappers and there is writing on the doors. Somebody has set to work with a black marker, covering them from top to bottom. But I can’t read this text, not from where I am standing. I edge closer and find that it is the work of not one but of many hands. A collection of missives and declarations and these have been added to and added to until lost. Engulfed by this dense and unfathomable block of words, of letters, I move closer still. I want to know what it is and what it was.