Hallow
![]()
All Hallows on the Wall
.
The wall remembers. Not in the way we remember, with sharp edges and warm nostalgia, but in layers—ghosts pressed into plaster and paint, residue of paper and glue that no solvent can erase. It is a record of lives once lived, of announcements, of forgotten celebrations, of warnings that now whisper only to those who pause long enough to see.
All hallows linger here—not the saints of candlelight or the hollowed dead of ritual—but the everyday specters: the flyer torn at the corner, the tape still clinging stubbornly, the faint shadow of a poster that once declared something urgent, now faded into ambiguity. These traces are devotion without ceremony, offerings to nothing and everything.
Hands have touched this wall, pulled down and pinned up, scrawled and peeled, each gesture leaving a mark. Time presses against it, gentle and persistent, softening edges, muting color, until the residue is all that remains: a tactile memory, silent and insistently present.
And if you stand long enough, you can feel it—the hollow pulse behind the plaster. The wall is not empty. It holds the echoes of small lives: children’s artwork, lovers’ notes, public decrees, private fears. It waits for hands to come again, for glue and paper to return, for memory to layer itself once more. Through it all, it keeps vigil, a quiet witness to everything that once was and everything that will be.
All hallows on the walls.
