In the building there I work there is a cinderblock staircase painted a very bright, very penetrating shade of yellow. The concrete steps are painted grey; there are no windows, and for a number of turns and landings between the fifth and third floors there are no doors, either, so for a long stretch you circle around and around as you descend, and there’s no way out. This makes me, at least, think existential thoughts.
The upper flowers are solid yellow, with only a few calligraphic flourishes here and there, graffitied in black marker. Drawings and words start to collect between the fifth and fourth, and by the time you’ve descended to the third the walls are full of images and words.