The mark is a measure of time
Last winter, I spent nine afternoons walking an old industrial quarter with a notebook and no camera. The walls changed block by block: lime under ochre, ochre under soot, then a cut deep enough to catch noon light. Nothing was blank.
An isolated letter can hold more weight than a sentence. A loop interrupted at the edge records pressure, hesitation, and return. The gesture is not placed on the wall; it is excavated from it. The ground stays visible, making memory material.