Everyone writes on the walls here — it’s the world of ultimate free speech, and the walls have been listening for longer than anyone’s been talking. Abandoned industrial zones have become the most honest galleries in the cosmos: rust turned to canvas, cracked brick sprouting flowers, color laid over decay until the decay reads as the point.

Nothing is too loud. Nothing is unwelcome. You came because you have something to say and you were tired of the places that wanted you to whisper it. Pick up a marker — the Inku markers are right at home here, they’re the local tongue — and add your line to the long, bright, ongoing argument the city is having with itself. The wall will hold it. The wall holds everything.