Sidestep Fossil

Everything here is permission denied. You want to face the wall straight-on? Good luck. These aren’t paintings—they’re traffic. Try and stand still; the fractured seams push your shoulder out, the barricade clip threatens your knee, the terrazzo nubs catch your wrist. Call it a wall, call it a crosswalk flash-frozen mid-chaos—same difference. What’s fossilized in here isn’t nostalgia, it’s caution: those warning stripes got strangled under 800 kilos of mix. The tape isn’t decoration, it’s a civic exoskeleton—adhesive artifact, not a memory. I don’t build for comfort, I build for drift. Urban code says: keep moving. I just make it literal, panel after panel. It cost some fingerprints, a few new curses, and a decent pair of boots. But the city changes faster than the concrete sets—so I scavenge quick, I embed before the cleanup crew arrives. You want shelter? You’ll have to sidestep me first.