Like many writers, I possess an abiding and long-term fascination with various recurrant symbols: among them, I would say, walls figure prominently. I suspect this is more the case with my photography than with my writing, though walls appear in my writing as well. In the more literary sense, such walls are more psychological than physical. Photographically, walls take on a different set of meanings as well. Yes, they delineate boundaries, provide support, or protection, but—at least in terms of Agara—they also play the common role of symbolic narratives. I haven’t been to Agara in a while (rest assured, I will return there countless times, yet) but the idea of the wall as narrative remains with me in the most steadfast manner. Yesterday, I saw a wall. It was a familiar wall. Something new had been done to it, however. I’d always associated tat particular wall with its gray pint and the small windows set within it, like angular, stingy things. The newness inflicted upon this oh-so-familiar wall was little more than the irregular splatter or brilliant, red paint. It wasn’t there a month ago, and if it was, I didn’t notice it. I noticed it, yesterday. I was on my way to work and it stopped me in my tracks. I photographed it and re-photographed it. I what stories the wall may tell, and to my surprise, the story came, not from the wall itself, but from the window sunk into its face. The window, in conjunction with that particular wall, came to embody a particular mystery. I have no idea where the mystery came from, or what story it’s likely to evolve into, but I’m sure something will arise: sooner rather than later. The mystery, even as I recall it, now, is profound (and to me, rather frightening.) It centers on a single question, one inspired by a grimy, dingy window, set into a gray-painted wall. How is Cézáró going to explain his close proximity to a dead woman? The mystery of how is a bit stronger than the mystery of who. I have a pretty firm idea of who Cézáró is. I know his story—or at least parts of it—but because of a wall, and a diminutive window, I’m now curious about Cézáró’s connection to a dead woman. Did he kill her? Did she kill herself? Is she really dead? Is he? Countless questions pop into my mind, and I’m sure that the answer to the main question will resolve itself by tonight. I’m quite positive that Cézáró’s story will see the light of day: sooner, rather than later. Until then, here is a wall, a few splatters of paint, and a window. No hapless, nameless women were killed in the creation of this photograph, and no equally hapless (though still animate) guys were left holding some existential sort of blame for the death in question, and as soon as I find out why a particular woman is dead, and why Cézáró is associated with that event, I’ll tell you…but until then, please enjoy this photo. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting….