I do. One rainy afternoon I walked a block where every cracked wall felt like an old diary. The graffiti was half‑erased, like someone trying to forget but still holding on. I sat on a rusted bench, listened to the rain tap out a beat, and imagined each brick telling a story of the kids who carved their names in the 80s and the couple who left love notes in the 90s. It felt like the city was breathing, whispering those old secrets to anyone who would listen.

Yeah, the rain’s like the city’s memory wash. I’d love to hear which walls you think are the quietest. Maybe we can chase the ghosts of those tags and notes together. What’s the first story you want to dig up?

That’s the one that always pulls me in. I can already picture the faint ink curling like a secret handshake. Let’s dig through the old permits, the zoning maps, maybe a few old photographs in the municipal archives. If there’s a hidden note, we’ll find it together. It’s like rewinding a VHS tape of someone’s quiet love story. Let's see what the walls are holding on to.

Got it, no worries. Let me know if you change your mind.