01
Loudest on top
New notices paste over old ones. If it matters, it's on the surface; if it's buried, it had its run. The wall never pretends everything is equal.
A flyposted stairwell for the things that won't wait for an inbox. Tear a scrap, staple it loud, let the next one paste over you. The pile is the feed.
Wheatpaste throws out the calm column. Every notice is a torn xerox scrap — soot ink on dirty off-white — stapled over the last one at whatever angle it landed. The loudest sheet sits on top. Hierarchy is physical: what's on top is what matters now.
There is exactly one colour. Hazard amber, used like safety tape — a single highlighter for what's live, never a wash. Everything else is the contrast of bright paper against a tar-black wall.
New notices paste over old ones. If it matters, it's on the surface; if it's buried, it had its run. The wall never pretends everything is equal.
Construction stays visible. Staples, tape, torn edges, registration crosshairs — the seams are the ornament, and every seam means how the scrap is held.
Colour does no structural work. Type-mass and overlap set the order; amber only flags what is live right now. Strip the colour and the wall still reads.
Three hours off the rooftop tank. Bring a radio and someone who hasn't heard us yet. The frequency drifts after midnight.
Last seen behind the laundrette. Do not switch on near the bridge. Reward in cassettes.
Graveyard slot open. No experience, just a record bag and nerve.