Once on a summers eve i was wandering aimlessly around the downtown whence i came upon an alleyway. Narrow. Red brick. Rain slipped. Ethereal. It lead to a series of alleys behind a bakery, and a barber shop, and a corner convenience. It was between this barber's and baker's buildings that the otherworldly alley appeared like a portal, not of space or dimentions, but of time and even more so, memory. It happened that a man was murdered here. Stabbed by a child, only 17. It was once a crime scene and also a night home to vagrants years before. It remembers countless couples stealing a kiss against the red walls and pressing each into the cracks and crevices, under the influence of lust, love and substances. Too narrow for cars but it recalls the bikes of boys buying bread for their families. These stories were told without a word on the walls as so often they become a canvas to the creative and the courageous, the space instead spoke for itself. For in its fragility and purity it was of this world, picturesque and yet common place.