I can picture him. The plasterer. An artist inside, a tradesman to those who pass by. It's his space to fill. As he wishes. He stares at the symmetry and his thoughts run to levels I don't understand. He can see things I can't. No-one can. Putting thoughts and emotions to a reality he hopes someone will feel. He cries inside for a lost love one, laughs at his children, weeps for peace, spits at the politicians who take his taxes. He's hungry now. For satisfaction. Expression. He wants me to see. I can't. It's just swirls but I know there is a bit of him in there. I stare at the space and wait for it to reveal itself. I think I can see a dog.