Thin places in the labyrinth, I call them, where you always find writing on the walls. Every town and city and hamlet has them; 6 foot ‘look at me!’ murals in block colours; scribbles in felt tip above the bins; scratches – initials, dates, stars, flowers – on village hall doors.
The thin places are where people pull out these secret letters, to themselves, to others, and pin them to the boundaries where they can flutter like prayer flags. Sometimes, in the summer, they’re covered up by a waterfall of flowering vines. In the autumn, the heart with an arrow through it on the worn church step will be buried in brittle orange leaves. Sometimes the council come and cover them up, but they’ll be back, these messages in a spray-paint bottle.