Outside of the projects, properly named the Gun Hill Houses. They can give them whatever names they want, they can number them, call them “Houses,” or use the word “Residence” or “Estate,” it doesn’t matter; it’s the projects. Everybody knows what that means.

There is a set of conditions that comes with the projects, a set of circumstances. Cheerless and same-y tales of the have-nots or the lost-it-alls. A singular architecture that communicates a code every citizen is hardwired to decipher: those who live within possess less human value than those who live without.

Outside the projects, even the garbage strewn around the playground is straight-up cliché. Empty bottles of Olde English malt liquor, Cheetos bags, chicken bones, a stray toddler-size Reebok.

Note all of this. Disregard it.

Enter the building. All surfaces are subway-car metallic magic, impervious to Sharpies, spray paint.

Enter the elevator to a cloud of piss and beer. Enter without fear. Push the correct button. None of this is unfamiliar.

Exit the elevator, follow the hallway to the correct door. Take out the key.

Savor this moment. Everything begins now. Enter when ready.