i am talking to a wall. the wall is cracked, covered with chipped paint and mysterious indents. it has been standing there a while, waiting, aging. the wall is a shade of grey or blue, or grey-blue, the colour of clouds before a mid-week summer storm. if i look closely, i can see traces of fingertips left behind on the fractures. who left them there, the wall would not tell me. the wall says he does not remember how they got there, though it is hard for me to believe him when i know the wall has ears if not eyes, and the wall never forgot a single word i said.