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The script

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Cobblestones shift under your heel.

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Cold light filters through windows semi-opaque with dust.

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Cold, moistened air raises the hairs on your neck.

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Collapse imminent.

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Concrete's cracked. Tree roots attacking.

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Conspiracies, pelota, and sometimes, conspiracies about pelota.

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Construction materials still in their box, somehow gathering rust.

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contemptuous hiss

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CONTRABAND CRATES -- AMMUNITION FOR THE NEXT SALVO OF LUZIAN CULTURAL WARFARE.

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Cool beard.

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Cool place to hang.

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Copper and steel decay.

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Copper light spilled across Party Alley. With the tip of his cigarette, Vespar indicated another building. You'd lost track of how many.

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Could crack this open.

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Could jump this easily. You just don't need to.

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Cozy.

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Cracked screens, shattered keys. Someone wanted this thing dead.

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Creeping ivy, the same variety that climbed your first apartment in Kohila.

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Crochet cushions.

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Curled in on herself, staring at her hands, muttering.

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Damp cardboard. 'FLOOR SEALED', badly scribbled over.

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Darkened, grease-stained glass. Only faint shapes visible beyond.

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Dated: 76. We were teens. Life loomed. And now, we're here.

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Debt is platonic, Hersh. Big or small, it doesn't exist as long as you don't pay it.

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Decommissioned petrol pumps.

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Degeneracy.

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Designed to look sporty, but covered in glitter.

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Detached plugs, powerless.

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Detritus everywhere. Watch your step.

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Dishes. Recently washed.

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Dissected and abandoned.

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Distance disappearing into darkness.

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Documents with the Renotel dolphin at their head.

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Does it make you feel powerful? To live so many lives in sequence and in parallel?

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Don't fucking look down!

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Don't look down.

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Don't look down.

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Don't recognise any of these bands. Been gone too long.

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Donations. It is unclear to what, though the nature of the shrine suggests war crimes.

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Door shut, windows dark. No-one is home.

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Doors crowd you, stacked upon each other. Behind one of them -- your former asset, ESTOC, draped in a see-through cloak.

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Down below, a viscous carpet of grey-green undulates softly.

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Dozens of personnel files, the specifics redacted with a roller-stamp.

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Dried soap bubbles leave rainbow smears.

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Dried white paint -- matte. Good for covering up steel.

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Drunk enough that if the building collapses, he won't care.

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Dumped in the dead of night, hoping to avoid a fine.

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Dustless below the tarp, awaiting an unveiling that will never come.

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Easier to write off the loss than attempt to recover it.

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Eastward, the city blossoms outward like a fractal, unto the island's edge.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 10 of 26