Ever since I was a child, I have been fascinated with the Number 9. Where did this fascination come from, was it that 9 was the last single digit number? It has puzzled me for quite some time, but has always been something that I have thought about. I wore the number 9 when playing both hockey and water polo, and it has always brought a somewhat comfort, in an inexplicable kind of manner.
Immediately, this wall grabbed my attention, the macabre contrast of a dark wall brought to life by it’s crimson counterpart, much like how the moon reflecting off marble headstones lightens up a cemetery. I could not resist, for here I found myself mesmerized by an inanimate object, a wall much less. The light shown so bright reflecting of my number 9, as if being cast over by a sea of fire ants running across a dark tree. I may never feel this way about a wall again, but this wall will always stay with me.