The sound of water outside. Use it as your guide.

A gate opened -- it shouldn't have. Pull it again!

No warning lights, no worrisome noise. Keep going.

And the cling of metal on stone. You're on the right track.

Steps confirmed so far: 1. Press red button. 2. Switch. 3. Lever. 4. ? 5. Tentative: red button, long press.

A high-pitched whine from a motor.

Something's stopping the water from draining. Still, this is undeniably the first step.

The water won't drain unless it has somewhere to go.

You could keep trying, but the smartest move is to rule out unknown variables.

There's a step missing. The lever, perhaps?

The mechanism's already in place. It's the water you should worry about now.

Main drive engaged.

It looks exactly how you imagine the cockpit of a flying machine would.

Work this out and you should be able to drain the water outside.

The cabinets too.

Her gaze lingers on the document in front of her, but it's forced. She wants to keep her eyes on you.

Work justifies presence; any liquor is incidental.

Expired coffee, greasy condiment residue. Typewriter ink. Chemically processed wood pulp.

The poet got halfway through the critique, balled up the paper, and threw it in the bin behind them.

XXs and smudged ink where the author struggled with a sticky key on the typewriter.

And their attempts to self-edit in real time as they wrote.

Exactly how you remember it.

Usually, not had.

In Tsunese, spies are called 'cockroaches'. In Capoblancan, they're 'earthworms'. In every case, it is a detritivore, head-down amidst the trash of this world.

You want, therefore you are. Existence is confirmed by what it lacks.

And in fucking. Fucking all the time.

And that smell -- equal parts evergreen forest and skunk gland, at once exotic and familiar.

Any excuse for a laceration of the flesh.

You might've remained forever, had the occasion not arisen to unfreeze you.

BRUTE ANIMAL CUNNING IS ENOUGH TO INVENT CAPITALISM. POST-HISTORICAL MATERIALISM IS NEEDED TO TRANSCEND IT.

RUMBA! Canned coffee, even a sip of which would have made your ancestors' hearts explode.

They're so excited they're about to explode in their grey trousers.

In the eternal struggle between main things and side things, you have chosen a side. The side of not really choosing.

Sometimes there's an installment so bad that the entire franchise has to be wiped from the collective consciousness...

Even the accusation that you overindulge in guilt provokes a little pang of guilt.

There are no faces to be seen, just blurred suggestions.

Forgotten souls with plantar fasciitis and nothing more.

Shadowboxing against an invisible and in all likelihood totally imaginary opponent.

For all intents and purposes, the only answer that should matter is your controller.

You hear a great rustling -- a million trench coats unfolding like moth wings.

Scent of metaphysical essence as yet undetected. Possible fabrication.

A testament to the power of the Operant Bureau's conditioning, preserving the original memories at sub-dream level.

Memories dormant in the paving stones and eaves are beginning to rise. The air itself grows heavy with past sensations.

The book stays closed. It has a nice cover, what more do you need?

Attempts have been made. Four decades in, the text sports large underlined paragraphs and a fair amount of marginalia.

None of this has rendered you any more intelligible.

THE TESTING GROUND FOR TECHNOLOGIES OF DEHUMANISATION KNOWN AS THE DEVELOPED WORLD.

The last gasp of heroic rock. They never lied and never sold out! The image and the reality were one.

Something that can never be said about you.

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Checks