It looked so bare. Every time he passed by, its ness ing glared at him, blindingly pale cement colored and desolate. Sometimes he would stand in front of it, imagining it to be his canvas, pressing the palms of his hands to its surface like a lost lover, breathing in its lovely urban scent. It was only a small section of wall, but Minho felt it was his. Or at least, he really ing wanted it to be his.