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The script

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She spends slow afternoons rearranging the postcards under glass.

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She spins toward you, arm raised.

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She taps her heels against the wall, keeping an inaudible beat.

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She will not look at you.

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Sheared metal, barely hanging on.

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Sheer and unclimable.

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Sheltering from the elements, while keeping an eye on the boats.

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Shelves stacked by a hoarder, then labelled by an obsessive.

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Shimmering, diaphanous cloth catches your eye.

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Shiny plastic tablecloth, scent of lemon disinfectant.

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Short climb to the top.

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Shrapnel everywhere.

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Shrimp noodles.

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Side by side seating to increase communal spirit.

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Sign can't be older than 4-5 years.

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Signals from across space, lost forever with no receiver.

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Signed by Cheve Grijalva, a Quisach striker known for his femur-splintering fouls.

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Silence. Nobody's home.

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Silk pyjamas flutter like wings.

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Sleeping. One day he shall remain in his position as the life inside of him departs.

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Small animals skitter through the pipes overhead.

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Small white and blue feathers, a few droppings. Birds made a home.

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Small white flowers have opened up at the touch of a sunbeam, tight buds unfurling. Pale, fragile things.

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Smashed. Dead.

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Smell of damp cigarette butts: ash and mould.

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SMOKED GLASS LENSES; NEVER SHOW THEM YOUR EYES.

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So clean somehow...

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Soap bottles in the rubbish pile. Someone is living here.

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Soft coos echo through the pipes; pigeons are nesting inside.

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Solid acoustics and a tunable chest piece... very expensive stethoscope.

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Some kind of rule or interdiction, now effaced with black spray paint.

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Some of these bricks are suspiciously loose...

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Some say the Philosophical Spy is simply the Manus Fati's finger puppet. Others call it a walking massive depressive episode. But one thing…

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Some serious protection gloves were left here.

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Somebody had a fire here. A barbecue... or burning evidence...

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Somebody tried to climb these.

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Somebody tried to unblock the toilet with a riding whip.

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Someone braved the stairs just to leave their tag here.

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Someone draped the curtain here as a warning -- the escalator's collapsed.

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Someone has posted a 'Missed Connections' inquiry up here.

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Someone has slept in the grass here.

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Someone has tried to clean the graffiti here.

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Someone has vandalised someone else's vandalism.

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Someone last used this calendar three months ago.

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Someone must have dropped these. They'll hide your eyes.

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Someone risked their neck to arrange cat blankets carefully on this platform.

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Someone's been using this AC as a stash.

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Someone's given it a beating.

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Someone's left a book here.

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Someone's left a book here.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 17 of 26