I'm going to Berlin for a moment.

The light bulb in the entrance is nonexistent. Instead an empty socket gapes, wires dangling as if someone has ripped the bulb away and the violence was frozen into a permanent reminder that things are sparse here. Upon penetration into the inky entry chamber encased by two sets of archaic doors twice a person's height or more, a scent of death warmed over and topped with garbage greets your nostrils. I often chose not to breathe until the courtyard, wheeling my clunky pink cruiser through as fast as possible. The darkness is absolute in the passageway. I simply hoped that the slasher of Friedrichshain would never find this secret doorway to lurk in with his bottle, waiting patiently to break it over my head and mutilate my face with the remaining shards. Maybe he did one day, but couldn’t stand more than a minute of the smell and promptly moved on.