I see the concrete as a grid that can’t help but show the cracks where the graffiti goes. The authorities act like janitors with a never‑ending mop, but their broom is bureaucracy, sweeping over one spot only to ignore the next. They erase the loudest voices, but every layer of paint leaves a faint scar that eventually bleeds through. That’s the game—they try to scrub the art away, but the rebellion’s pulse just finds another vein to seep into.