I stumble in. The fumes and filth attack every sensory organ. And suddenly, there it is. The grand mystery. Cesspool's answer to Stonehenge.
White lights seem to be flashing.
I try to make sense of it. On the wall of the paperless booth, staring out at me, someone has composed a lyric poem and written it here in careful letters. It is entitled Oleanders. It covers the whole stall. It is lovely, although loses everything in translation.