What of those who don’t get the pristine white walls, the chapel like silence to exhibit themselves? What choice is left then for them, then to venture into the city itself—its tentacle body, its metal heart? Do we care for their mysteries? For their “kabbalistic” numbers shimmering in the dark, for their marks and symbols splattered across doors and alleys on pieces of metal, fading, dusty obscure. The graffiti of this city is heartbreaking and indifferent and we are heartbreaking and indifferent, watching it, never waiting for their mysteries to unfold .