That otherwise nondescript building with its fascinating pattern of rust & crumble, shadowplay & color, passed & ignored by thousands daily, perhaps turns out to have been situated as such because there was no other place for it. Simple chance. & weathering? Of itself, how commonplace.
Less fascinating than the serendipitous outcome of artistic desires to be sure, but whatever piques our fancy, mundane or exhilarating, will nonetheless have a story to tell.
So, the Wheelie Bus. What teenage vandal stuck this here?
But grown-ups -- real ones, of course, for the adult mind that dwells on such frivolities has thrown pragmatism away to embrace an adolescent atavism that keeps one from very important blah blah blah I'm tired of this crap -- too feel those emo pangs that always come unannounced.
Young or old, it matters not. Was he, or she, spurned, suffering a rapid oxidation until extinguished? It will pass, someone is bound by law to tell you. Ignore them. Was it unrequited? Was it an impossibility due to distance -- or to closeness which I imagine would be the most paralyzing -- was it done in jest, friends marking one of their own out for a mocking approved only for those within the closed group? Or was it a small child not yet burned by this beautiful corrosive, giving little or no thought to choosing a heart, lifting it off a sheet of yellow companion stars & rainbows & sticking it to surface in some makeshift match game, red like red?
Yeah, I think I prefer that last one.