On the north side of the American Self-Storage building, just past stop # 24. Best viewed from across the street. Next to the fire escape, the remains of some liquid arc across the brick, some thirty feet off the ground. A well-deployed mouthful of chaw? Someone tripping with a cup of coffee? Protagonist long gone; stain lingers (as stains will), preserving its artist for the ages like those Paleolithic hand prints in French caves.
To read while viewing: Falling, James Dickey’s epic poem about the stewardess who fell to her death from a plane over Kansas.
… finding herself with the plane nowhere and her body taking by the throat
The undying cry of the void falling living beginning to be something
That no one has ever been and lived through …
One cannot just fall just tumble screaming all that time one must use