Alright, I feel as if I should preface this with a disclaimer that these pictures were taken months before these poor stairs were held hostage by the... *looks both ways, peers over shoulder, searches the horizon for any sign of the Fox newsroom's literal Eye of Sauron focusing it's fiery gaze on anyone who mentions the term...* D O M E S T I C T E R R O R I S T S.
Oh, how they trampled you. But not in the way that you enjoy. I know how you like it: Toes first, ankle second, heart last—worn on the cuff of my jeans. Each echo resonating in this chamber found welcomed quarter in my soul. Or what was left of my soul after my then-girlfriend threw me out on the street with nothing but my Playstation 2 and an XBox360 controller. Was it a metaphor for our relationship? I don't know; I am way too drunk off this Chianti to psychoanalyze what she meant by "emotionally distant."
It's a good thing that I know, from that door on the right, that these letters stand for "LOWER LEVEL" and not "LOST LOVE" because that would be depressing and way too specifically poignant toward me staying a couple of nights in this hotel. Like, even if management knew of my love life, why would they: 1; not only take my relationship status into consideration for stairwell decorum, but, 2; actually go through and sign off on such a thing. Should I feel grateful that a stairwell has been modified because/for me? Tbh, I would be somewhat glad. And, hey, that's the emotionally distant equivalent of two thumbs up from American Idol Randy Jackson. So, uh, anyone out there with a stairwell that needs to be augmented in some fashion, perhaps think of my neutral face when you do so.
"No roof access" *sighs in Russian* Do you know how many times I've seen this? I've seen a lot of stairwells—none of which have given me access to the roof. The roof could be lit, and I wouldn't know. Maybe the real stairwell aficionados are up there, taunting me with their ability to jump from said easily accessible roof and cease further existence. It is truly a gift I've yet to receive. Until then I shall leap from the access points I'm given. My new apartment neighbors below me are well-aware of the sound my body makes as it hits the pavement one-floor below. They've stopped calling 911 and have instead begun requesting that I "do a flip" on my way down.
Is it the repetition that tickles my brain testicles? The image of a stairwell, copied and pasted over and over and over and over again, calling me to peer over the edge, in the center of this repetition; enticing my curiosity and arousing what I find beautiful in man's image—no, not the physical self but the created; the built; the construct of labor and ingenuity—the creation of a means to ascend one's physical self above others.
And inversely, when looking up at tens or hundreds of steps, it is a reminder of how low, how degraded one is, and how far one must climb to find inner acceptance, if only temporary?
This stairwell gets 3 slaps in the face from The Wayside Cafe's haughtiness-activated auto slapper.