We open the door to the studio building and find a man laying in a pool of blood. The whole navy ship gray stairwell is covered in splashes of molasses-like blood. At first we think he is a homeless guy who has been bludgeoned by thugs, but later I ride the elevator up to my friend’s studio. The “elevator” it consists of a series of ladder rungs that one holds onto and they wind you up like a conveyer belt. By the fourth floor, I am reeling with vertigo. I’m pretty sure that the dead guy fell off the “elevator”. This sort of thing must happen all the time.
