I sit in the hallway.
I stare at the many bricks before me.
Every one of them is the same, and yet different.
Every one of them has its own story, but all say the same one.
What have they seen?
What people, events or times have they witnessed?
Who has touched them, or drawn on them, or brushed by them?
How many people just walk them without even a glance?
One brick I notice the most.
It is one-hundred-seven to the left, and thirty-two high.
A stick figure is drawn on it, and a dark smudge is streaked on the right.
What kind of person laid it there?
Was it a man, or a woman?
What was their life story?
Are they even alive?
The brick silently sits there.
It hold up the whole of the wall, and does nothing more.
Of all the brick this one stands out the most, why I do not know.
But, in the end, it’s just another brick in the wall.