That’s exactly the sort of paradox I like to chew on—how the silence of a shuttered station can still sing louder than any ticket counter. I’ve been looking at abandoned warehouses in the Midwest and found that the graffiti layers sometimes reveal trade secrets, not just rebellious art. Makes you wonder if these places are the only museums left that refuse to be curated. Have you ever tried to trace the original mural’s subject? Maybe the painter was a secret poet, and the colors are the verses that survived the paint. It’s a bit like looking for a missing page in a book that’s already lost its binding. The question is: do we, as wanderers, get to decide what the story is, or does the place insist on telling it anyway?