My favorite piece of graffiti in Chicago says, Memories are sacred. Sometimes I think we made each other up out of nothing to forgive one another our sins. But I’ve always drawn closer to the artist than the art. So where the other ledge says, Andy, Ash, Angel, Yoli, I wonder about the figures beneath the names. If their memories are the end, what was the genesis, and finally, who are we to all the words between us?
Memories are Sacred
Published
Author Mark Miller 