This ephemeral little glimpse, just a few painted words by an anonymous artisan; a reminder of an unlikely place organized by an alphanumeric code.
Relax; it still exists. At one or two or maybe three removes, sure, but it’s right there, as fast as “hastings sunrise ghost sign”. Simulacra, a chilly consolation.
Too late. A temporary shift in habits, a few days without need of haircut, or deli, or aimless highstreet drift, and the violence is done, the bodied covered by tarp.