"The Heights of Love"And deep in New York City.

Oliver Kent. Raised in a small town in Ohio, he spent his early life honing his tagging skills on whatever was accessible: weathered fences, decrepit warehouses and now & then even a train car. He dreams of being a modern-day graffiti artist in the classical sense — no mere skull tagging or activating his name across an public surface, but literally turning street into canvas with larger-than-life edgy original compositions. At 21, Oliver's passion was about to turn into something more serious. A small amount of dough saved up, enough to rent a room in the heart of New York City — home sweet mecca-trash. It was a gallery through which artists from all over the world came to display their wares on its canvas of grit and sprawl. Oliver checked in to his new accommodation, knowing that this was where he needed to be and ready to make a difference. Hailing a cab, Oliver told the driver an address in Greenwich Village and felt his heart race with every block closer to the old red-bricked building. The apartment was not much- it consisted of a small, fifth-floor walk-up that had one bedroom- but to Oliver it solidified his claim and signalled the start of our happily ever after. His heart raced; not just because the narrow staircase and carrying bag was exhausting, but he knew what laid on in other floors. Upon swinging that door to his new home open, nostalgia washed over him. It was a small flat, with unstable wooden flooring beneath that gave way to the noisy street three storeys below. It was loud, dilapidated and rough around the edges but it had character — an appeal that whisked Oliver back in time. He pictured all the artists, writers and composers that must have lived in this building alone they had left their souls behind. Oliver dropped his suitcase and sucked in a breath. This was the moment, this is where it begins his new journey. He was going to take every opportunity that came his way by the horns, push the boundaries of art and make a mark for himself in this city. Once he had settled in, Oliver went for a walk. The streets bustled with people of all creeds, as insane and lively to diversity. On the streets vendors were selling olive oil and olives, musicians played on every corner of the street and delicious aromas from nearby cafes where piles up with freshly baked bread. Oliver felt like he was in the middle of some surrealist movie and could only gawk. Oliver's eyes were lead by graffiti of layers that spanned down the side of a building, each successive marking more colorful and ornate than its predecessor. The skill and creativity that captured his attraction showed in every tag; each one of them had a story behind it. And at that moment he knew this is where, indeed belonged. Oliver removed a can of spray paint from his backpack and acted without hesitation. He found a gap on the wall and started his hands moved in perfect time. The world around him fell away and he became lost in himself; creating something different, that was his very own. Oliver only noticed his audience when he stepped back to admire the finished product. There was a group of kids with wide eyes that had come to see him. An awe-stricken look crossed the face of one, a boy who appeared to be no older than he. ‘That’s awesome dude,’ the boy replied. “You have some serious talent. Oliver grinned, still slightly breathless. “Thanks. Exclusive just trying to leave my mark around the city. "Whatchu New Around Here Ain't 'Cha?" another kid asked. “Yup, moved in today,” Oliver said. “Now you officially live in the area! I'm Jason and this is the team. We love graffiti as well, so you are in good company. Oliver looked very enthusiastic with the greeting. “Thanks, Jason. I’ll definitely be around.” Oliver was going home now that the sun had set. Though he'd only been in the city a few hours, it was already home. It is in this environment that he felt at home and could be himself, somewhere his love for art and its creative atmosphere was shared by others. Oliver saw a girl in front of his building, lugging an enormous canvas down the steps that was nearly as big as she was. She had long dark hair caught up in a messy bun, and wore paint-splattered dungarees that announced her as an artist. “Need a hand?” Oliver stepped in. The girl gave a small surprised jump, then smiled thankfully. “Awesome, thank you. Together, they managed to flip one end of the canvas up and began moving it cautiously through the small doorway as best as he could manage for a sizeable heavy four by six foot width painting. They arrived at her apartment, which was across from Oliver's building; he introduced himself "I'm Oliver by the way". “Clara,” she responded — a whisper of conviction. “Nice to meet you, Oliver. You’re new here, right?” “Yeah, just moved in today.” “Welcome to the building. It is small, but quirky.” Oliver chuckled. “I noticed. But I kind of like it.” Clara nodded, her eyes glimmering with amusement. “You’ll get used to it. Anyway, thanks for the help. I owe you one.” Oliver chuckled “No worries,” his heart skipping as he felt some strange connection to this new stranger. “Then maybe you can be my guide one day in the city?” Clara paused, thought for a moment then smiled. “Sure, why not? But I must warn you, we are going to hit up all the best art places WHATSOEVER. “Ill do it,” Oliver said, even though he had no idea why the hell his heart was pounding. Clara left, disappearing into her apartment — Oliver smiled in the hallway. He had only been in New York for a brief while, yet so far ¹— this city; these people as well — he suspected they would alter his life in ways that escaped him to storytell. What young Felix Freibe was about to learn is that the angelic voice of Clara will inspire his art in new ways, but also touch even deeper parts.hp --- Oliver paused in the hallway, waiting until he could hear Clara moving around inside her apartment. The floorboards creaked, her canvas thud against the wall. The tangy odor of paint and turpentine mixed in the air with just a hint of mildew from long use building. The smell was familiar, home. Eventually he walked into his rented room and closed the door behind him. Sunset streamed through the large bank of windows, lighting up a vast meeting room with warm golden hues and long shadows on the floor. Oliver paused, absorbing the stillness. For all that it was a day of joy and celebration, there had been an odd undercurrent running through the events — could be anxiety or merely everything closing in too fast. He had arrived in New York, discussed his first neighbor, to say he was apart of something more significant than himself. A glance around the room showed him nothing but blank walls and open space. The weight of his situation finally hit him. He had relocated to an unfamiliar city without a job and hoped his art would allow him to pay rent. It was scary to think about, yet it motivated him beyond compare. He was there to show something, not just the world but himself… he was here out of his shadow so that no one should say later on in life; “he became an artist”. It took Oliver the next hour to unpack all his things. Setting his stack of graffiti art books carefully on the small bookshelf under the room window. He even put up a couple of his favorite prints on the wall, like that big colorful thing he made—lots of swirls in every color imaginable popping off the canvas. It was his baby, a testament to all he had earned. Oliver got to chopping and had set down the last of what Quentin asked for as he went through each spices while adding them to his cup measures. Since breakfast, Pete hadn't had anything to eat, and his stomach now began a subtle demand. He thought of a little pizza place he had seen on the way in, so back out onto the streets went. The sun was starting to retreat as the city buzzed with night-time thoughts. And with the flick of an eyelash, the street lights all came on and glowed warmly over that nocturnal pavement. Everyone was being rushed, some were on their way he for home after a long day and others had just started the night ahead. The bright hustle and bustle of the street filled Oliver with renewed ambition, his heart racing as he stepped forward. This has happened a few miles from where I live, in an obscure little pizza spot with a worn out sign and about 4 doubtlessly wobbly tables arranged together inside it. The kind of place only locals know about, and Oliver liked that. He opened the door and walked into a waft of warm, tangy tomato sauce mingling with melting cheese. The walls were plastered with faded posters of classic films and autographed photos from supposedly famous guests who had visited over the years. Oliver slid into a booth by the window and turned his back to the door once he ordered pepperoni, take-out slice of pizza with soda. While waiting for his food he looks at those people out the window, everyone with their own worlds. He mused over the tales of their life — what motives had landed them in this city and where were they going – he, to harvest fairy floss? His mind wandered to Clara. There was an inscrutable allure to her, but he did not know what about her fascinated him. She was more reserved than everyone else he had known until now and there was something about her that gave him confidence. What art does she do, what is her motivation for it and why did a woman like her want to live in such an old building alongside me. Happy as a pig In s**t, Oliver mutilated his sandwich. The pizza was his dream—crunchy crust, acid sauce and excitement grease.