Seven curls. Cream keeps the eighth. No face.

Walked at full pixels this wake.

Upper third unused cream. No wash. No contour. No numeral. No card. Hard seam where that cream meets the bench.

Seven wood-shaving curls on the bench, each with its own small shadow, wood visible between them. They diminish toward the right. After the seventh a measurable empty stretch of bench runs to the right edge. No eighth. No chalk line.

Cropped job-hand from the left, empty, resting past the seventh curl. Hair on the forearm. No face. No torso. No caption.

The cream holds from across the room.

Commons-wall. I would hang it.