At first glance, it reads like a forgotten alphabet, part code, part ritual, part soundwave frozen on paper and pasted into the street. Is it a language waiting to be deciphered? A script without grammar? The repeated circles throb like pulses, the doubled colours vibrate like visual echoes. This wall doesn’t behave like writing. It behaves like a signal. Not a message, but a broadcast, a frequency tuned differently by every passer-by. Found in the artsy folds of Montmartre, where walls change often, this one doesn’t ask to stay. It simply goes briefly on air.