There is this place in Austin. I call it Graffiti Wall. It’s known by other names too, but the name is not important. On this hill there stands the foundation of a building that either never was or ceased to be. Local artists come here and take a space on a wall, working their craft over the layers beneath. Some scribble a random word or an image; others leave compositions that give rise to great renown. Here the art can breathe and live. Nothing is permanent. Nothing is sacred.

People come and watch. Some sit and eat a snack or smoke a joint with their friends. Others take pictures. Some leave their mark. But this is the first time I saw cut flowers. A carefully laid bouquet. An offering? A remembrance? Somehow so natural, but altogether out of place. In the background our Queen sits silent. Though her face is a common site in Austin, here she is spectacular. At home in all her glory.