Good Old Days I

Across thirteen storeys, a huge emptiness is spreading; out of blind faith in technology, a staircase was never even considered. What remains is the skeleton of a concrete-slab council block. The signal-colour lift doors and the left-over chains offer the only safe exit, the only way out – but that safety is treacherous; he who opens the doors finds himself at the edge of the abyss. There is no more security, a lack that, in times of economic crisis, is considered a threat to the collective.