Yeah, I was up at three that night, camera hanging from my arm, and the silo looked like a crossword in concrete. Those peeling lines are the story the building writes itself – each crack a word, each missing paint stripe a sentence. It’s like the wall’s trying to say “I remember” to anyone who looks closely. If you stand on my corner and look, the pattern aligns with the skyline, almost symmetrical. It’s a secret I keep.