Don't blink, you might miss it.

A block long and less than seven feet wide, Elim Street is more akin to an apartment lightwell than a proper, navigable right of way. Narrow, deep, and short; it’s trajectory is amenable to sharp language. To adjectives and metaphors about blades and the cutting motions thereof – slicing, cutting, carving, penetrating, piercing. This language can be liberally applied to Elim’s smell as well. Perpetually dark, windless, and damp; the smell condenses and drips from the nose. Yes, it’s that moist. Yes, it’s that strong. Yes, I was lying on the ground to take some of these shots. Yes, I contemplated burning my wardrobe afterwards. I only wish I was exaggerating.

Sky reflected in rain, urine, and what looks like either rust or blood.

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