Smear. Slap. Smooth the edges. Pick the bucket up, pick up the bag. Walk. Rattle of train overhead. Pigeons squabbling in an alley. Smear, slap. Pillars slide by. Smear, slap.
Days later, weeks. The power builds, the name builds. The city mouths the words, curiously, mockingly. Most ignore their work, pass by unseeing, one more bit of background information filtered out in the canyons, but not all. Not all. Some sound out the name, mangle their breath around the name, trying it out.
Smear, slap.
Weather takes its toll—the name degrades and must be reapplied. On concrete it works best, a firm solid seal. You’d have to buff it off. Smear, slap. But rain, wind… weather takes its toll. No matter. They reapply.
At night the name pulses, flickers. Corner of your eye. Turn—nothing. Something? Peer into the shadows: the name is there, its syllables hungry for you. Unlock your word hoard. Birth this strange nativity.
Smear, slap.