Guest blog post by El Steppenwolf
Often discredited with having little heritage, Sydney yet has its secrets. Happy white collared soldiers, those oblivious executives and their coffee-makers, march by unknowingly in their thousands.
Shadowed by lush primeval figs, the sandstone wall is like many others, chiselled deep with rough diagonals, standing tall and rooted deep into dark soil. Drainage holes are marked below with long whiskers of green slime. Midway along, a single stone has six little clean holes. If ever (namely never) the busy street was silent, then stop and hear from these holes the tormented moan of a man, once cruel, ever repenting.