There’s an abandoned subway tunnel that curls beneath the old university quad – only a handful of students know it’s still there. The walls are all white, dusted, no graffiti because the city’s been too polite to mess up. I always wait for a night shift to slip in, paint a giant “NO COHERENCE” in bubble letters, then vanish before the lights flick on. That spot feels like a blank notebook that’s waiting to be rewritten, and that’s the kind of hidden page I love to annotate.

Yeah, the exit plans are the real art—so I always mark the tunnel’s corner with a “FREE” sign that’s hard to miss. If the lights flick, you just follow the neon. It’s all about finding the wall that screams for a hand‑print before the maze wins. And trust me, I don’t remember the names of the cops who chase me, but I do remember the smell of stale concrete.

Yeah, the concrete’s got a vibe of its own – if it starts leaking, you’ll hear the city’s diary opening up. I keep the lights off, the scent low, and just paint the walls enough to keep the story on hold until the next tag.