If one could catalog the things that walls experience while we are not there to accompany them, our grand perceptions might completely fall apart.

Take the Memphis Fairgrounds Casino, on a normal evening, well past the regular hours of operation, when a most peculiar blue box makes an equally peculiar entrance onto the center of the dance floor.

And immediately disgorges a pair of mismatched travelers.

“No, no, no, that won’t do at all!” Proclaims the lanky, impossibly awkward yet charming man.

“What? What won’t do?” Asks the girl he’s with, obviously used to this kind of situation, yet completely comfortable with it.

“The whole thing! All the bits of it have gone all sciency-winency. And the panilluminarium, well, that’s completely shot! I could try bridging it with a paperclip, but that might, um, do something bad.” The man replies.

To which his companion calmly points upward, saying, “Panilluminarium? You mean like that?”

A mirror ball spins lazily overhead, oblivious to what is about to happen.

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” the lanky man beams.

Well, that would be the sort of impossible things walls could tell you about, if they weren’t torn down.

Memphis Note
Three hundred and sixty-five stories. You all knew it was only a matter of time until I threw a Doctor Who story in. But! The Memphis Fairground Casino was a real building, whose interior held the most dazzling array of lights and a spectacular mirror ball. Built in 1930 at the south end of the fairgrounds, the Casino was a legendarily opulent regional dance hall. One which fell into decay when a new set of owners stopped the sale of alcohol, then transferred ownership to the city for a fraction of of the original value. The Memphis Fairground Casino was demolished in 1963.